


The Mating Season

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Modern Royalty, Mystery, Secrets, Soul Bond, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-02-09 02:59:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12878754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: On a whim, at least partly prompted by the fact that it will really annoy his sister, Prince Arthur recruits Merlin to replace his missing valet, George. As time goes by, despite Merlin's inability to iron even a single garment without leaving burn marks, Arthur starts to develop inconvenient feelings—the sort that make his soulmark throb and his heart race. But Merlin is hiding unsettling secrets, and Arthur needs to decide who he can trust.A modern-day royal magical mystery soulmate AU. In which Merlin thinks he's James Bond, or Jeeves, or Harry Potter, or something, but actually he's more like... erm... Merlin. But despite that, it all turns out all right in the end.





	The Mating Season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littlehuntress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehuntress/gifts).



> This is for alittlehuntress. Dear alittlehuntress - I do apologise - I was going to go for one of your really cute prompts, but then the combination of soulmates and royal AU hit me in the brain, and this happened. I tried to mix a whole load of your likes into this story - and I do hope that you enjoy the result! 
> 
> *Author sweats a little bit*
> 
> Rated PG for minor swearing. Also, there is some violence but to be honest it's not particularly graphic. Title with thanks and apologies to P.G. Wodehouse. Beta with thanks to the ever patient T - thank you, my darling, I'm more grateful than you will ever know for your support! Any remaining errors are all mine.

With a sly glance at his wrist, Merlin checked the time. Two minutes to go. He bit his lip. Too late to pull out now. He tamped down his growing sense of impatience and willed himself to look interested. He hoicked up his too-loose jeans. He wished he could wear a belt. But the swap would be easier this way. Quicker.

His soulmark, resting tight against his palm, flared hot in counterpoint to his nervousness. A faint warmth, an afterglow, hinted that somewhere nearby, there was a potential soulmate who could sense his disquiet.

Bloody soulmarks. They created so much trouble. Look what had happened to Will. Mind you, one couple, standing right in front of him, was bare handed, hands linked. Obviously soulbonded to each other. They looked happy enough – Merlin supposed a happy soulbonding must happen to some, or people wouldn’t be so eager to do it. The rest of the party was discreetly single, each with one hand gloved – mostly the left, but sometimes the right. Idly, he wondered if one of them was a potential mate, the source of his discomfort, but his magic gave him no particular clue one way or the other.

Shaking himself, he forced his mind to return to the matter at hand. This was his first mission, and he didn’t want to screw it up because his damn soulmark was demanding his attention.

He and the rest of the tour party were standing in a room that glittered and sparkled, decked with golden trimmings and crystal lighting.

_“The White Drawing Room contains treasures from the royal collection.”_

The tour guide, whose name badge stated that he was called Edwin, was droning on and on. All about the reasoning behind all this opulence. His monotone reminded Merlin of politicians and vicars who were trying to make their audience fall asleep, so that they wouldn’t be tempted to question their ludicrous assumptions and barefaced lies.

It was safe to say that Merlin wasn’t a fan of politicians, nor vicars for that matter. Nor royals, actually. Not for the first time, he mentally questioned why he was here.

He glanced at his watch. One minute.

_“The current King’s knickers, bra and pants, hanging from the Louis XVI chandelier over there, stand as a fine monument to the King’s underwear manufacturers…”_

Well, all right, so maybe Merlin wasn’t really listening, and maybe that wasn’t exactly what Edwin said. But Merlin was after all very distracted by what he was about to try to do. He schooled his expression into one that he hoped resembled the polite fascination that graced the faces of the other tourists in their guided party, and waited.

“Excuse me, sir?” the sudden warm presence at his elbow made him jump. “Were you person enquiring about viewing the snuffbox showing a portrait of King Constantine II as a young man?”

Merlin’s phone let out a faint beep. Bang on time.

The palace employee who stood at his side was extraordinarily handsome, as if someone had taken the perfect features described in a fortune-teller’s most wishful fantasies, and made them flesh.

“That’s right,” said Merlin, feeling his way carefully around the words. “I am a collector of fine 18th century snuffboxes.  And I am led to believe that you can show me a perfect example.”

“Splendid.” The staff member grinned. “In that case, dear sir, please follow me, and my colleague will assist you.”

“Much obliged,” said Merlin, which was weird, because he didn’t normally talk like that, but there was something about the stiffness in the lackey’s manner, and the grandness of their surroundings, that somehow demanded formality. Sparing a second to check his watch, he followed the guy out of the room, ignoring the curious eyes of the other tourists, and through a hidden door into a passageway.

The moment that they were alone, he dropped the facade.

“Lance,” he said, grasping the other man’s hand. “Good to see you.”

“You too. In here.” Peering cautiously both ways down the corridor, Lance pulled Merlin into a nondescript-looking supply cupboard, lined with clean, freshly pressed linens. He started to strip.

Hastily, Merlin also disrobed and pulled on Lance’s discarded uniform, while Lance donned Merlin’s jeans and sweatshirt. The room smelt of clean laundry and Lance’s aftershave.

They’d practiced this. It took twenty seconds in total to swap their roles. With a whispered command, Merlin muttered a spell to alter the photograph on Lancelot’s security pass. Finally, Merlin slipped his mobile phone into the pocket of the trousers that Lancelot had recently vacated.

“You’ve definitely left?” As far as Merlin knew, Lance had worked out his notice period, but he thought it wise to check. “He’s not expecting you to turn up for work tomorrow? That’s it?”

“Yeah.” Lancelot pulled on Merlin’s hoodie. “No more valeting for me. Bayard’s gone back to Mercia in his official car. As far as he is aware, I’ll just be packing up my own car with all his stuff, and then he’ll be looking for a new valet.”

“Good luck, mate!” Grinning, Merlin slipped Lance’s security lanyard over his head. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

“Hey, I hope that doesn’t extend to snogging girls?” Lance let out a quiet little laugh.

“The exception that proves the rule!” Merlin rolled his eyes. “Now bugger off.”

“What, literally, or—” Lance bumped his shoulder against Merlin’s.

“Hey, I’m the only one allowed to make gay jokes around here!” Patting Lance on the back, Merlin peeped out of the cupboard door to check that the coast was still clear.

Lancelot slipped away, back into the state apartments to rejoin the tour. Meanwhile, Merlin strode as purposefully as he could down the servants’ corridor towards the room that his mental map told him Lord Bayard had recently vacated. Lancelot’s trousers were a little bit too loose on him, but otherwise the fit of the uniform was not too bad.

When he got to Bayard’s apartments, he scanned the room. A stack of suitcases was neatly piled at the end of a comfortable-looking four-poster bed. Lancelot had done his work, evidently. Merlin picked one up. It was heavier than he had expected. With a grunt of effort, he manhandled it onto the bed, opening the clasps with an audible click.

Inside, an array of immaculately pressed shirts nestled amid crisply folded towels.

“Jesus, imagine doing all that ironing,” he muttered under his breath. The shirts looked as if they were brand new. “No wonder Lancelot was eager to leave the job.”

He checked his watch again, aware that he didn’t have much time. He and Gaius had agreed that he would haul the luggage around, for plausible deniability, while he used his magic to search the palace’s private apartments. But he would have to be careful; the royals were all in residence. Of course, that was a good thing; there would be no point searching an empty palace. But still, it increased the chances of being discovered.

The trolley that was left in one corner of Bayard’s room consisted of a pair of wheels with a sort of tray, that you could stack stuff on, and then angle so that it was manoeuvrable on the wheels. It was topped with a pair of handles. According to the plan, Merlin had to move this item along the corridor. If asked, he would simply state that he was attempting to find the exit, to load up his car for the return trip to Mercia.

Starting with the largest suitcase, Merlin stacked all the luggage up, and then tilted the trolley to push it through the door. It was trickier than he’d anticipated. The leathery suitcase material was slippery, and the smaller cases kept wanting to slide off. He quickly discovered that moving backwards was more effective.

He was sweating by the time he reached the door.

 _Stay under the radar,_ said his inner Gaius. _Don’t get noticed._ He poked his head out of Lord Bayard’s rooms and scanned the corridor. _Plausible deniability,_ he muttered to himself. _Lord Bayard’s luggage. My car._

This was what he wanted, he reminded himself. This was his chance to prove to Gaius wrong! He was ready, no matter what Gaius thought!

Heart pounding, he adopted a nonchalant air before reversing into the corridor, tugging the trolley full of suitcases along in his wake.

“God, why does the old bugger need so much bloody stuff, anyway?” he muttered. “He was only here for a couple of days.”

Suddenly, the top case, which was light and therefore troublesome, started to slide off the top. Again. He couldn’t use his magic, not here in full public view, so instead he made a desperate lunge, aiming to grasp the handle. But his aim was off.

“Bollocks!” Merlin, cases and trolley tumbled in a tangled heap upon the thick carpet. He landed heavily on his bum. It hurt.

“Ouch!” yelled another voice, at the same time. “Do you mind? Clumsy oaf! Who the hell are you, anyway?”

When Merlin looked up into the impossibly blue eyes of an impossibly handsome prince, all his carefully scripted words fled, and he just lay there, gaping. Plus, his arse was really sore.

“I’m Merlin.” Oh, fuck, was he meant to use his own name? “I mean, I’m… I’m… Lord Bayard’s luggage. I mean, my car is his valet.” Bugger, bugger, bugger. “Or rather, his ex valet. He’s, um, I mean, I’ve left his service, today was my last day, and I’m just taking his valet to his luggage. I mean, the car. I mean, taking his luggage to the car.”

Nice save, he congratulated himself.

“I see. Well, commendable though it is for Bayard to hire someone with a severe mental deficiency,” sneered the prince. “I really don’t appreciate having heavy suitcases hurled at my knees. No wonder he sacked you!”

And maybe, if Merlin had just apologised and let it go at that, then nothing further would have happened.  
But despite the fact that his inner Gaius was screeching things like _under the radar_ and _plausible deniability_ at him… his soulmark was tingling, and his bum hurt, and this smug, smirking, gorgeous, royal _arse_ had just accused him of being a bumbling incompetent, and, well. Anyone would have felt the same.

”He didn’t sack me!” protested Merlin, hotly. “I resigned!”

Arthur snorted, and looked him up and down in a way that suggested he knew otherwise.

“You may be a prince, but that’s no need to be a prat.” Merlin struggled to his feet. “If you posh people didn’t insist on changing your shirts every hour, I wouldn’t be in this mess at all! I mean, how can a man conceivably need twenty shirts for a two-day visit? Hmm? And here’s me with a potentially broken coccyx! I won’t be able to sit down for days! Um…”

He tailed off, rubbing at his painful rump, finally responding to the small voice in the back of his head that was screaming at him to shut up. His mouth just ran on and on, sometimes, without consulting his brain, and that, in a nutshell, was exactly why Gaius had been so reluctant to send him on this mission in the first place.

Shit.

 _I bet this sort of thing never happens to Daniel Craig_ , he thought, morosely.                                                                                    

“A broken coccyx, eh?” The prince’s smirk was in many ways worse than his original sarcastic sneer. “Sore bottom, is it?” He scanned Merlin’s torso. “Can’t say I’m surprised, with the pathetic amount of flesh on those bones.”

That did it. Merlin’s hair-trigger temper flared.

“There’s no need to be rude,” said Merlin, squaring up to Prince Arthur. “I’m stronger than I look! Anyway, as for you, you’re no one special, you’re, you’re… you’re just an arrogant, body-shaming arsehole!” He punctuated each of the words in this statement by prodding the prat in his admittedly well-built chest with a jabbing finger.

“Stop that!” Arthur blocked his hand easily. “It’s bloody annoying.” Grabbing Merlin’s wrist, he twisted Merlin’s arm up behind his back until he squeaked. “You’ll have to do better than that, _Mer_ lin,” he said, his breath hot on Merlin’s neck.

Jesus, his body shouldn’t be reacting like that, but the combination of adrenaline and being manhandled by a strong, prattish arsehole with a wide, manly chest, a jawline that could cut glass and those famous glutes, hnggg, well, Merlin had always had a thing for being dominated. His soulmark was positively fizzing with excitement, and the trousers that he’d inherited from Lance did nothing to hide his discomfort either.

“Let me go, you great big bully!” he yelled, mortified beyond measure.

“You know what, I think I like you, Merlin!” Arthur released him, still grinning, but without all the attitude. His eyes softened, and there was something genuine about the way that he let out a sudden guffaw. “There’s something about you. I’m not sure what. Maybe I have a soft spot for insolent yokels. Especially the ones with a mental deficiency and no understanding of royal protocol.”

“Arse,” said Merlin, knowing that he sounded petulant. He turned to lean with his back against the wall, arms folded. glaring at the prat. And getting a good look, because, wow. The prince certainly was well put together, and the chances were that he wouldn’t get this close again.

His soulmark, thankfully still hidden under a glove, flared hot in agreement.

Arthur’s eyes flashed down for a moment, resting on Merlin’s trouser area. “And guess what? I think you like me too.”

“In your dreams!”

“Don’t try to fight it, Merlin,” Arthur purred. “You won’t be the first person to harbour a powerful attraction for me.”

At that moment, there was a “ding” from Arthur’s pocket.

“I’ve got to go.” His face fell serious. “Royal duties. It’s been fun, Merlin. We must do this again sometime. Ciao!”

Grabbing his mobile from his pocket, he turned his back and stalked off, turning to send Merlin a little wave over his shoulder as he did so.

“Wait! Aren’t you going to help me to clean up this mess?” yelled Merlin at his retreating back.

The gesture that Arthur made in reply was definitely not taken from the royal protocol book.

***

The encounter with Bayard’s clumsy valet had cheered Arthur up no end, and he was still grinning when he arrived at his father’s sitting room. His soulmark was positively fizzing with excitement. But his face fell when he spotted the grim expressions on its other occupants.

Geoffrey and Morgana were seated, while the King stood over by the window that overlooked the immaculate grounds. Leon and Percival, the King’s personal bodyguard and head of security, respectively, were hovering near the door,

“Father?” He’d been expecting a lecture, of course; one expects a lecture when summoned to the King’s private apartments for tea. Tea was practically a euphemism for a lecture. But what he didn’t know was exactly what this lecture would be about. Rather than the usual stuff about settling down with a nice girl with childbearing hips and a good seat on horseback, this looked somewhat more serious. “You asked for me to—”

“You took your time, Arthur.” King Uther waved a hand at the other sofa. “Take a seat. We have a situation to handle. Geoffrey?”

Silently, the King’s equerry passed over a copy of one of that morning’s tabloid newspapers.

“Oh.” Arthur swallowed, and ran a finger beneath his collar, and winced, waiting for the explosion. “That.”

“Yes, that!” yelled Uther. Turning on his heel, he stalked away from the window and yanked the paper out of his hands, tearing it into strips and hurling them to the floor. “Egregious rag. What the hell did you think you were doing, exposing your soulmark like that?”

Shit. Now he looked closely at the torn up picture, he could see that the photographer had helpfully zoomed in on his bare hand. Shit, shit, shit!

“Well, Arthur? I’m waiting for an answer.”

How King Uther thought that anyone could answer his questions when he was fixing his steeliest death glare upon them and addressing them in such tones, Arthur really did not know. He inhaled deeply instead, pursing his lips, and continued to glare at the grainy photograph.

“It’s quite clear, Father,” purred Crown Princess Morgana. “Arthur has been careless about his soulmark, and will suffer the consequences.”

“I wasn’t to know that—”

“You should never let your guard down with members of the public, sir, you know that.” Leon’s voice was more sympathetic and less accusatory than those of his family, but they still stung. They stung because he was right, no matter how Arthur wished he wasn’t.

“The little girl was bleeding, what else was I to do?” he protested, anyway.

It had been a split second. One of those decisions that you just walk into blindly, and it changes your life irrevocably.

Sometimes, Arthur liked to go out incognito, slip away from the heavy security that normally surrounded him, and take a walk in the nearby park. It was on one such occasion in the last few days that a small child, no more than a toddler, really, all blonde ringlets and huge, blue eyes, had taken a tumble just in front of him. She was clutching a toy that was nearly as big as she was, and she stared up at him, eyes brimful of tears. There was no adult in sight to claim her: her face scrunched up with misery and fear. What else could he do?

He knelt down and said comforting words. When another member of the public proffered a first aid kit, he did what anyone else would have done. Removing his gloves, he mopped at her knee with a sterile swab and popped a plaster on. So, the girl flashed him a gap-toothed smile, blinking through her tears. That’s when the mother finally turned up, all flustered and panicky, and handed him the toy to express her thanks. He identified it later as a My Little Pony Princess Celestia Action Figure. He still had it somewhere. Or at least, he thought he did, although George...

 

“What were you to do? Walk away, of course!” yelled Uther with a glare so cold that it scattered Arthur's thoughts. “Your security detail could easily have handled it.”

“Mordred wasn’t—”

“Ah yes, I forget. You had gone out without your security detail. Silly me!” King Uther exuded his most toxic brand of sarcasm. If sarcasm could drip, it would have formed a corrosive puddle on the floor. The carpet would be full of holes by now. “Silly me, thinking that they were there for your protection.”

“Or,” purred Morgana, who was enjoying this too much. “Perhaps you could have just kept your glove on?”

“It wasn’t sterile!” Frustrated, Arthur ran a gloved hand through his hair.

“Indeed, and clearly the paparazzo who put the girl up to this charade knew that,” said Uther through clenched teeth. “As you would have done if you had bothered to consult your inconveniently absent security detail.”

 “Besides which, after what happened after that crash last year, my conscience would not allow me to ignore—”

“The events of last year are one of the many reasons why Mordred or one of his team should be with you at all times, dear brother,” said Morgana, with an arch of one exquisite eyebrow.

“Oh, Mordred, of course, you would take his side.” Arthur huffed out a cynical laugh. Trust Morgana to defend the little sneak. “You’re his number one fan, after all. You and your _oh, Arthur, I know someone who would be good on your team!_ If you like him so much, why don’t you have him in _your_ security team? The fact is that I found him creeping round my room while I was asleep, and when pressed, he could give me no clear reason why…”

“You’re exaggerating, Arthur.” Morgana’s eyes flashed dangerously, and her voice took on that  sinister edge which meant that he would suffer, later.

“…and I can’t sleep when he’s around,” Arthur added, lamely. It wasn’t clear how he could blame his nightmares on Mordred, but they had been getting worse and worse when Mordred was around, and in contrast, over the last few days had become much better. “I don’t like him. He makes my skin crawl. I just… he gives me the shivers. He stares at me with that weird, robotic stare of his, and—”

“I’m sure Mordred had a good reason for whatever he was doing!” she cried, gesticulating furiously. “He’s merely trying to protect you! Why do you always try to blame your problems on your staff? He came with the most impeccable credentials...”

“That’s a bit rich, given that my staff have largely been foisted on me by you, Morgana!” he yelled back, wagging a finger at her for emphasis. “I’m twenty-one years old, isn’t it time I started choosing them myself?”

“Foisted?” Morgana’s voice went up two octaves, making Arthur wince and clamp his hands over his ears melodramatically. “How dare you! I take my responsibilities in hiring the household staff most serio—” 

“Will you both be quiet!” roared Uther, slamming his hand down on the windowsill with a force that made Arthur jump. “Stop trying to change the subject, Arthur.” He paced back towards them, and fixed Arthur with an ugly glare. “You have recklessly exposed your soulmark. Anything could have happened. You could have ended up with an accidental soulbond, or perhaps a member of the public might have taken the opportunity of your exposure to bond with you against your will. I am most disappointed in you.”

“I'm sorry, Father.” Arthur swallowed, Uther’s disappointment knifing through his heart as always.

“Thankfully, nothing untoward happened, sir,” said Leon, in a soothing tone. Ever the peace-keeper. Good old Leon. Always one to see the bright side. 

“Not this time, anyway!” said Morgana, examining her own, immaculate gloves with one of those smirks of hers, the ones that indicate that she is relishing his discomfort in a way that only a sibling can.

“Percival will accompany you outwith the palace until such times as you can find a replacement for Mordred,” said King Uther. His tone brooked no argument.

So much for his quiet walks in the park.

 

***

A few miles away, across the great, grey river, squatted a monstrous building that housed the top magical minds in the country. Silently it brooded, gazing out across the city from behind tall panels of thick, reflective glass. Inside, quiet people in suits regarded, depending on their competencies, a selection of computer screens, crystal balls, scrying glasses, tea-leaves, hand-held mirrors, and basins full of water. 

Closeted in his eyrie, a cosy apartment in the heart of this empire, like a spider amid the strands of its web, sat Professor Gaius Curry. Pensive, he gazed out upon the city he loved. Suddenly his mobile phone – the secret one, that he kept in a locked drawer in his desk – let out an urgent trill.

He groped in the drawer, fishing out his phone, heart pounding. Only a select group of people would be able to get through to him on this line. It must be urgent.

His heart sank when he saw who was calling.

“What is it, K10?”

“They found me.” K10’s breathing was heavy and harsh.

“Are you injured?”

“Yes. Look. I must report. I haven’t much time.”

“Report.” Ice trickling through his veins, Gaius gripped his pencil. The call was being recorded. But he liked the reassurance of his own notes.

“I have followed _the armoured lady_ as directed. I’m sorry but she has become bonded to the _prince of darkness_ , as we feared,” K10 rasped. Professional as always, K10. Using the correct pseudonyms.

It was the worst possible news. Gaius gripped his pen with clammy fingers.

“Go on.” _Bonded,_ he wrote, underlining the word three times. His hand shook as he wrote. Abruptly, the lead on his pencil broke.

“There is an insider. In the palace of Camelot. You need to get K11 out of there.” There was a sudden gasp, as if of discomfort. “Shit. They’re coming.”

“Get away from there! Quickly, K10,” said Gaius, urgently. K10 was his best agent. Irreplaceable. Fear pricked at his neck. Damn it all to hell.

“I can’t. They’re – I’m hidden from view. It’s only a matter of time… The Palace of Essetir is on lockdown, I don’t think I… Shit!” His voice rose to a panicked cry. “No! No!”

There was a scream, then an ominous silence. The phone went dead. 

“K10? Gwaine? Gwaine?” Gaius poked at his phone, but there was no reply. 

 

***

Bloody George! Amid all the stress of that meeting, Arthur had forgotten about bloody George.

Arthur stood amid the ruins of his private quarters, and frowned at the heaps of clothes that littered every surface, discarded by his own hand, earlier, during his haste to get dressed. On a normal day, George, his valet, would have restored the room to immaculate order by now. But this was not a normal day.

How could he be expected to function without a valet?

Earlier that morning, he’d encountered an admittedly distraught-looking George, on the verge of scarpering from the palace. And despite his best attempts to restrain the man, George had wriggled free and sprinted down the corridor as if legions of demons were hot upon his heels. After following him for a bit, Arthur had stopped when his phone rang to summon him to his father’s quarters, which was when gave up the pursuit. And of course, he’d bumped into that semi-simian buffoon, Bayard’s valet, en route, in an encounter that had managed to distract him so thoroughly that it was no wonder that the mystery of the disappearing George had gone clean out of his head.

So, here he was now, standing upon a mound of ties, not sulking, princes don’t sulk, but rather contemplating the disarray that was his life at present. A missing valet, a sacked head of security, a sister who insisted on meddling with his choices, and a near miss with his soulmark.

Which, come to mention it, the damn thing must have picked up on someone in the vicinity recently, because it was positively purring at him right now, if soulmarks could be said to purr. It felt like sort of a cross between a tingle and a warm, buzzing glow. And the purring was getting, if anything, stronger by the second. He rubbed it, willing it to behave itself, and casting his gaze around the room, hoping for something, anything that might help him to resolve one of his many current predicaments.

Which was when he spotted it. A plain white envelope, pinned to the top of Arthur’s normally immaculate and little-used writing desk. Grabbing it, he ripped it open. A brief message was inside, in George’s perfect copperplate handwriting.

 _I regret to say that I am unable to continue in your employment, for health reasons,_ it stated. _Please accept my resignation forthwith. Yours faithfully, George._

“Is that it?” Arthur took another step backwards, no doubt crushing one of his tailor’s more colourful creations beneath the royal brogues, and swept a miserable hand through his hair. “Health reasons? He’s as fit as a fiddle, from the way he ran off!”

He turned the paper over, but there was nothing on the other side. But, come to think of it, George had been acting a little strangely for the last few days, ever since he... Startling like a rabbit at the slightest, sudden noise. After clearing a random collection of socks from the end of his cosy, striped, mock-regency sofa (by the simple expedient of shoving the lot onto the floor), Arthur sat on one end, and frowned at the flickering TV screen – not sulking, obviously, nor brooding, but definitely contemplating, trying to trace the history behind George’s abrupt departure. It had all started with that incident…

There was a sudden loud bang, followed abruptly by the door being flung open, and a trolley full of precariously perched luggage entered the room. Arthur’s thoughts scattered.

“Oops?” A flushed, cheery face followed this contraption. One which Arthur instantly recognized.

“What the hell are you doing here?” barked Arthur. This was the very limit! Really! If he couldn’t well, if not brood, then definitely contemplate, in the privacy of his own apartments, what was the point of anything? He scowled at the bloke who’d just blundered in. “Haven’t you found your car yet?”

“Oh.” The bloke, Melrose or whatever his name was, Bayard’s old valet anyway, was bright pink, whether from exertion or embarrassment Arthur couldn’t tell. “It’s you.”

“Yes,” said Arthur through gritted teeth. “It is indeed me. _Mel_ vin. Although I wouldn’t know it, from the disrespectful way that you addressed me. And these, as it happens, are my apartments. Which makes you?”

“Lost?” said the valet, raising both eyebrows.

He leaned on the pile of suitcases in what might have been an attempt to look nonchalant, but if it was, it spectacularly backfired, because – predictably, Arthur thought – the cases promptly toppled to the floor, followed once more by an extremely disgruntled-looking valet.

“Trespassing,” said Arthur, forcing down the hysterical laugh that bubbled up inside, because really, this guy was completely clueless. “Incompetent. Insolent. Lacking in manners…” he trailed off for want of better word.

Cute, his mind supplied helpfully. Oddly attractive, in a scrawny sort of way. Cheekbones you could cut butter with. Deep blue eyes – the sort that you could lose yourself in, if only they weren’t busy flashing with outrage. And lips… if Arthur had been a more articulate man, he could write poems about those lips. Instead, he satisfied himself with a quick glance. Wow. Full, plush, and at present pushed out into a delightfully plump moue of outrage. They were truly top notch lips. A1. Five stars.

“Annoying,” he said, tearing his gaze away, and ignoring the ecstatic buzz of his soulmark inside his glove.

“In pain!” responded the valet, scowling back. “You might help me up, prat!”

He looked so comical, lying there on the floor with his limbs tangled around a small, Louis Vuitton bandouliere, that Arthur couldn’t help laughing. 

“Have you been walking around the corridors of the palace all this time, looking for the way out?” he choked out, between guffaws, and he didn’t know why that image should make him feel so lightheaded, but it did. He held out his gloved right hand for Merlin to grab, and hauled him to his feet.  “You really must be the most incompetent valet this side of the five kingdoms! Is that why Bayard sacked you?”

Quite the opposite of George, in fact, who was competent to the point of uptightness. But, look how that ended! Arthur definitely needed a valet with a bit more gumption, next time. Interesting.

“S’ not funny,” muttered the valet, looking Arthur directly in the eye instead of bowing as he should. The half smile that tugged at his lips gave the lie to his words. “I told you before. He didn’t sack me, I _resigned_. And my name’s not Melvin, it’s Merlin. Prat.”

“Merlin Prat?” Arthur chuckled. “How very fitting!”

“No, Not me! I’m not the prat!” said Merlin, with an indignant frown that darkened his eyes and made his lips bunch up. “You’re the prat. Prat.”

“Well,” said Arthur, rolling his eyes. A curious, half-formed nugget of a thought was stirring in his brain. “My name’s not prat, either. So that makes us even. _Mer_ lin. But from now on, you can call me _Sir_.”

“Thank you, _Sir Prat_ ,” murmured Merlin.

“You’ll be looking for a job, no doubt,” Arthur purred. “Wanting a reference, that sort of thing.”

“Yeah.” Merlin smirked. “Shouldn’t think that’ll be a problem, though.” He took a step closer to Arthur so that they were practically nose to nose. “People like me. _You_ like me.”

Damn it. He was right. Arthur _did_ like Merlin. More than he should. It had been such a long time since someone spoke to Arthur like that – as if they were his equal. It was downright intoxicating.

“Tell me, were you this insolent to Bayard, Merlin?” growled Arthur, letting his eyes flick down to Merlin’s mouth again, just to check.

Yep. Probably the plushest lips he’d ever seen. There they were, mere inches from his face. And such an enticing sight, that Arthur couldn’t help licking his own.

Merlin’s eyes followed the movement, then flipped slyly back to meet Arthur’s as he smiled. He blinked, his black lashes stark against the pale pink flesh of his cheek.

“Nope, Sir Prat,” he replied, cheekily. “Only you. You’re special.”

It was the grin that sealed it. The straight up, joyful grin that set Merlin’s eyes dancing with mischief even as they disappeared amid a blaze of crinkles just made Arthur want to shout out in delight.

It was as far from George’s impeccable, po-faced service as Arthur could possibly imagine. Besides which, when she found out what Arthur planned to do, Morgana would have kittens. The first time that Merlin met Morgana, he would probably trip over his own feet and end up spilling something unspeakable all over Morgana’s immaculate stilettos, then somehow manage to blame her for the whole thing.

Arthur couldn’t wait, and his tingling soulmark agreed.

“Good. Because, um. As it happens. I have a suggestion for you…” Arthur said, smile widening at the thought.

***

“Working for the prince? Merlin, are you out of your mind?” Gaius’s voice crackled over the phone. “Pull out immediately! You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. You’ve not been trained to go deep undercover – it will only take the slightest thing for you to be discovered…”

“I’ll be careful!” Merlin whispered, cupping his hand across his mouth as he spoke into the microphone attached to his phone.

He was sitting in a small supply cupboard just off one of the service corridors in the palace. He hoped it wasn’t going to become a bit of a feature of his time spent at the palace, this business of sitting around in a cupboard having a whispered conversation.But Gaius was still speaking. Ranting, rather.

“…besides which, I know you – and you’re constitutionally unsuited for this kind of mission, Merlin. You’ve got a stubborn streak a mile wide, you’re prone to mouthing off at the slightest provocation, and what’s more, you do magic as simply as breathing. And if you do any magic in the palace, any magic at all, you will most likely be found. It’s far too risky. I order you to abort your mission and come home.”

Merlin frowned at his phone. Gaius was such a worry wart!

“Don’t worry, Gaius!” he hissed. “I haven’t found what we were looking for, but this is brilliant, it’s the perfect solution, don’t you see? With K10 out of action, you need a new agent, and I’m already in, I’ve got the perfect exc—”

“Merlin!” yelled Gaius. Even from this distance, Merlin could picture the elevation of Gaius’s famous eyebrow, and he grimaced. “The palace has been infiltrated, someone in the household is compromised, and we don’t know who!”

“I can find out who, Gaius! Let me do this! I know I can! It’s perfect, don’t you see? And at the same time I can still find out about the—”

“Absolutely not. You don’t know who you can trust! Your mission is over! I order you to retreat!”

“Sorry, I’m losing reception,” lied Merlin.

He closed his eyes and let out a brief spell. An obliging burst of static made his phone crackle. Smiling, he ended the call, and leant his head against the back of the cupboard. He would show Gaius what he was made of! Besides which, his magic liked it here. It was happy here, and positively seemed to enjoy the work. Above all, it was happy near Arthur, which would make his original mission easier. And as for his soulmark, it was positively glowing with joy. He didn’t like to think too hard about the implications of that. Soulmarks were tricky things at the best of times, and he’d have to keep his own soulmark’s reaction to Arthur well hidden. He had more pressing business to attend to.

Later, when he was back in Arthur’s empty apartment, Merlin flexed his gloved hand, and spoke a word of command. More obediently than ever it had before, Merlin’s magic sprang into action - folding trousers, ironing shirts, sorting out drawers, tidying shelves, and rehanging suits so that they were arranged in order of colour. Meanwhile, Merlin sank gratefully into Arthur’s candy-striped sofa. It had been an eventful day.

He awoke with a start to the sound of timid knocking at the door.

“Your Highness?” The knock came again, a little louder. “Sir?”

“He’s not here,” called Merlin, struggling up onto his elbows.

He ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed his eyes. Damn it, he must have dropped off! This would not do! He coughed to clear his throat, just as the door opened.

“Who the hell are you?” A young woman stood there, arms akimbo, frowning at him.

She had a heart-shaped face, and black hair that cascaded in thick ringlets around her shoulders, but was held back from her face with a slide. The trouser-suit she wore looked classy but inexpensive, and her shoes were immaculately polished, but in a style that inclined more towards sturdy than fashionable.

“Um… I’m Merlin.” Disentangling himself from a rather soft blanket that his magic had somehow managed to drape over him while he dozed, Merlin finally got his feet beneath him and stood up, blinking and yawning. Another member of staff, he thought. He smiled at her dopily, stretching and coughing again. “Ar— _Prince_ Arthur’s new valet.”

“George is the prince’s valet.” Her features, if anything, grew even more stern. “What have you done with him?”

“Um, George left, apparently,” said Merlin. Another spasm of coughing wracked his body. “Sorry! Asthma’s playing up something chronic in here…”

“Why?” She crossed her arms.

“Probably house dust mites? Lots of soft furnishings in here, carpets, that sort of thing, I’ll have a go with the vac—”

“Not the asthma, doofus.” She rolled her eyes. “I meant, why has George left?”

“Ohhh! Sorry.” Grinning, Merlin shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t know. Maybe he got fed up of pandering to the condescending prat?”

“Merlin!” Her mouth dropped open. “You can’t talk about the prince like that!”

But her eyes were beginning to crinkle, as if she was holding back laughter.

“Why not?” said Merlin, grinning. “He gives as good as he gets. I mean, here’s how my job interview went: he watched me try to iron a shirt, and called me a bumbling bumpkin with two left feet and all the grace of a hippo with gloves on.”

“Really? I’m sure that’s not in the staff recruitment handbook!” She tilted her head towards her shoulder. “What did you say?”

“I called him an entitled, overprivileged tosser, and an anachronistic relic from the dark ages.” Merlin shrugged. “I was getting a bit flustered, to be honest. But he just laughed, told me that his sister was going to go loop the loop, and hired me on the spot!”

“Oh, my God!” She really was laughing, now. Her hand flew up to her mouth, but he could hear the muffled snort. She turned away for a moment. When she turned back, her features were schooled into a sort of frown, but her mouth kept twitching up. “You mean to tell me that he hired you just to annoy Morgana? Oops, I mean, the Crown Princess. I’m not meant to call her Morgana except in private. Oh, dear, I probably shouldn’t have told you that! You’re very easy to talk to, you know!”

“All part of my charm!” said Merlin, tilting his head on one side. “Anyway, I’m enchanted to make your acquaintance, dear…”

He lifted an enquiring eyebrow, going for the James Bond look. But another coughing fit made him double over, eyes stinging, which somewhat marred the effect he was going for. Hands on his knees, he gulped in a couple of breaths.  He mopped at his watering eyes with the back of his sleeve, desperately trying to tamp down the spasm.

“Oh, sorry! I’m Gwen, Mor— _Princess_ Morgana’s personal private secretary.” She stepped forward to thump his back sympathetically. “Are you all right?

Damn, he really needed his inhaler.

“Fine, fine.” He fished around in his pocket, and then realised that he didn’t have an inhaler on him, on account of these being Lance’s trousers. “Bugger. I don’t suppose you have an inhaler, do you?”

He blinked at her through bleary eyes.

“You’d better come with me and I’ll find you one.” She sighed. “And I suppose I’d better show you around the servants quarters, as well. Plus, you’d better get used to me, because I’ve no doubt I’ll be the one who gets lumbered with doing all your background checks. Arthur still doesn’t have a personal private secretary, not since the whole Sefa-Daegal-George love-triangle debacle… is that why George left? But I thought that was all resolved months ago! Wait a minute…” Her nose wrinkled. “Do you smell burning?”

Merlin sniffed the air. Sure enough, there was a bitter, smoky tang. It set his throat and lungs tickling again, setting off his cough. Hmm, that explained why his asthma was playing up. Yep, he could definitely smell something sort of acrid and scorch-y, and the smell was getting stronger all the time. Something like burnt hair. Or scorched—

“Oh, shit!” he exclaimed, leaping across the room to where the hot iron was currently burning a hole in one of Arthur’s no doubt expensive, now ruined shirts. “He is literally going to kill me.”

***

“Here you go.” One of Gwen’s hands lingered almost wistfully on the doorframe as she waved him into the room with the other. “This used to be George’s room, so it's yours, now, I suppose! It’s a lovely room.”

Merlin stepped over the threshold. He coughed again, taking in the decor. The room had high ceilings, with fluted cornices and a decorative plaster rose that bore the pendant light. Other than that, compared to Arthur’s palatial apartments, George’s old room was spare – spartan, even. Everything was white, from the walls to the plain-looking wardrobe, wash hand basin, writing desk and bookshelves. The bed was bare, stripped of bedclothes, ready for him to make up for himself. It reminded him of his first-year student accommodation at university – albeit on a slightly larger scale, with better quality fittings.

The room was warm, but Merlin was shivering. As he looked around, he and started to cough again. Some sort of delayed effect of his recent asthma attack. God, what an idiot, falling asleep with the iron on.

A door in one corner led to a practical, tiled bathroom and loo.

“What’s in there?” said Merlin, indicating another door opposite it.

“Oh, that’s a cupboard.” She rattled the door, but it was locked. “I’ll see if I can find you a key for it. Maybe George left some things behind to come back to.”

Nodding, Merlin crossed to the window, where the room had a view over the busy street outside. Far below, a car hooted its horn and there was a constant rumble of traffic.

“You’re shivering. Are you cold?” Gwen stepped over to the radiator. “You can adjust the temperature on here if you like. The palace plumbing is a bit old fashioned, I’m afraid, but there is a thermostat.”

“I’m fine,” said Merlin, rubbing his arms. “Don’t worry. It’s just the asthma.”

“You’ll be wanting to pop out and get your luggage,” she said. “You’ll need to come and see me to sort out the paperwork. You get your own towels and bedlinens from the linen cupboard out in the passageway. You’ll want to chat to Ar— erm, I mean, His Highness – I mean, the prince – erm, about your expected shift patterns – oh, and you might want to clean up a bit before you have to do that, you’ve got soot—” she put a hand to her mouth and giggled.

“What?” Merlin looked at himself in the mirror above the sink. Sure enough, black smudges were smeared around his forehead. Hastily, he dabbed at them with one wet hand, but only succeeded in spreading them onto his cheek “Damn!”

A loud ringing sound made him fumble in his pocket, but when he looked up, it was Gwen who was answering her phone.

“Oh, hello Your Highness. Merlin? Yes, he’s with me!” There was a long pause while she listened, and her frown transformed into a sly grin. “Yes, I’ll tell him that. All right. I’ll send him right away.”

She looked up.

“Apparently, you’re a clumsy oaf with gristle between your ears and bananas for fingers, and you’re to go and report to Prince Arthur at once!” She flashed him a sympathetic smile. “I think he might have found the shirt.”

“Shit.” Merlin groaned, sinking his head into his hands. “Just kill me now! It’ll be quicker!”

“Chop, chop!” Gwen said, heartlessly pushing him towards the door. “You don’t want to keep the boss waiting, now, do you?”

***

Cold fingers traced the vertebrae in Merlin’s spine. He whipped his head round, but there was no-one there. Around him, bare trees sent long, spindly fingers into a grey sky. Nothing moved. Until suddenly, in the distance he could just make out a slender, tall figure, walking towards him, its fingers outstretched in a menacing claw shape.

“Who are you?” he yelled. “What do you want?”

But no sound came out of his mouth. A sense of dread crept over him like a black tide, remorseless and devoid of humanity. He opened his mouth to scream. All he could muster was a high-pitched wail, thin and pathetic.

He woke with a gasp, a wordless cry still trying to force its way out of him. His heart pounded and his skin felt clammy. His legs and arms itched, demanding to be scratched, and his scalp tingled with suppressed power. Panting, he gazed up at the ceiling, where the light that filtered through the blinds from the streets cast pale-orange stripes. The dream had passed, but his sense of unease lingered.

Damn. Stupid recurring dream. He supposed it was to do with being in a new environment, and under cover for the first time. He would probably settle down as he got used to it. But he’d not slept properly for days, not since he arrived in the palace. He had only just begun to settle into the new routine. He would get up with the alarm, so that he could help Arthur select his clothing for the day. Arthur would snipe at about his incompetence, but there was a warmth to their banter that he found himself unexpectedly enjoying. After that, Arthur would be tied up in official engagements and Merlin managed to find some time during the day for exploring the palace, which he put to good use. But frustratingly he was no closer to finding what he was looking for.

On most evenings, a function would demand that Arthur dressed for dinner, which would involve more preparation time, and barbed insults about Merlin’s inability to tell the difference between seemingly identical items of footwear. Rare evenings off were either spent with Gwen and the other staff, playing cards, or sprawled in a heap on his bed, reading. Otherwise, much of his work involved wading through interminable piles of ironing. He was sure that there were other more competent staff that Arthur could delegate this to, but no, the prat seemed to derive great pleasure from glowering at Merlin’s fumbling hands as he fought with collars and cuffs.

But overall, life was good. Sometimes, he would even forget why he was there.

If only he could sleep.

Groaning, he cast his bedclothes aside and swung his legs out over the bed. The LED on his bedside clock blinked at him, stating that the time was 03:16, far too early to get up. But he would not sleep, not now. Several nights of this repeated nightmare had already taught him that.

With a resigned yawn, he started to dress so that he could go and get himself a cup of tea. Stopping to drag a blanket off the bed, he pulled on a pair of warm socks, and a glove to cover his throbbing soulmark, then shivered as he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders.

He padded, sock-footed, along the corridor, nodding at a waiting security guard, and entered the staff kitchen, heart finally settling as he sipped his tea.

***

Arthur had always found getting ready for a feast a bore. But it was much more fun with Merlin than it had been with George. With his sassy mouth, and total lack of reverence for anything royal, he was like a breath of fresh air. Not that Arthur would ever admit that out loud, of course.

“Merlin!” yelled Arthur out of the corner of his mouth now, as he examined the crumpled state of his favourite dress shirt. “Get your skinny little arse over here right now.”

“Of course, your worshipful dollopheadedness,” muttered Merlin, rolling his eyes.

Which was another thing. Arthur could never be sure what inappropriate name he’d be given next. It certainly helped to distract him from his inevitable doom later that evening.

With a long-suffering sigh, Merlin deposited the basket of laundry he’d been holding onto the sofa and continued his usual, inventive litany of grumbles.

“Farbeit from me to keep on doing the previous, suddenly no longer important task, because there is nothing more important than whatever bee you have in your bonnet right now, not even the fact that I am in the middle of someth—”

“And stop arguing.” Disguising his smile by shaping his features into his best scowl, Arthur rounded the sofa and confronted Merlin’s mutinous pout with a snort. “You forget who’s in charge.”

“Huh, like you’d ever let me forg—”

“Merlin,” growled Arthur. “I am known for my patience across the world. Patience is practically my middle name.”

“Funny, that.” Merlin’s mouth twisted until he looked almost constipated, which Arthur knew meant that he was thinking up some elaborate insult. “I can think of some far more suitable ones. Arrogance, for example. Egotisticality, tyranicalness,"

"Those are not real words," Arthur interrupted.

"Despotism,” Merlin continued, unconcerned. "Dictatorialness..."

“Whereas you, Merlin,” Arthur waved the offending shirt in Merlin’s face and then manhandled his valet until he had wedged the garment thoroughly under the waistband of his trousers, talking all the while. “You are a churlish, malodorous yob with all the manners of a Billingsgate fishwife and none of her charm.”

He followed up his attack with a favourite wrestling move that had Merlin on his back upon the sofa, resentment darkening his features into a most attractive expression of disgruntlement. Straddling him triumphantly, Arthur promptly wedged Merlin’s arms beneath his thighs so that he could go in for the tickle.

“Great, loutish bully…” struggling under Arthur’s onslaught, Merlin brought out one arm, flailing it about ineffectually. “Pompous, overprivileged twat.”

“You like me really,” purred Arthur, Merlin’s lithe body wriggling between his thighs as he strained to throw Arthur off. “You like me a lot. I can tell. Which is why it beats me that you keep on mangling my favourite shirts.”

“I can’t help it, if you’re a colossal nincompoop who keeps distracting me when I’m ironing. Let me go!”

Arthur got up, still grinning, and rubbed at his gloved hand. His soulmark was positively glowing with satisfaction, damn it. Focusing on soothing his sudden discomfort, he turned away and stared out of the window, across the palace gardens into the night, resting his forehead on the cool toughened glass pane. His breath steamed up the window, so he rubbed at it with his ungloved hand. Far away, down below, lights twinkled on the marquee where tonight’s reception in honour of Lady Vivian and King Olaf would be held. 

“Just… just find me a shirt, Merlin,” he said.

“I just don’t _get_ you, sometimes.” There was a heavy sigh, then the sound of rustling from the other side of the room. “What did I do now?” The grumbling continued, but thankfully it was punctuated by a quiet click, the sound of a wardrobe being opened.

“You’re not meant to _get_ me, _Mer_ lin,” said Arthur. “You’re meant to keep me well dressed and advise me on matters of clothing. That’s all I want from you.”

Perhaps if he said it enough, it would be true. 

“Huh.” A moment or two later, Merlin was back, holding up a pale blue shirt with a faint diamond pattern in the thread. “Blue is better on you than pink, anyway. Brings out the colour of your eyes.” 

“Well, I think I’d prefer not to sparkle too brightly, tonight, Merlin,” he admitted, sitting on the arm of the sofa and contemplating his options. “From bitter experience, it’s hard enough to escape Lady Vivian’s predations when I’ve got a horrible hangover and my cologne is masked by the over-riding scent of whisky oozing from every pore. Let alone when I’m at my debonair best.”

“I’d better put this one back, then. I’m not sure it’s got a large enough hole for your head to get through.”

“Oh, ha ha. Anyway, I’m sure you’ve never had to deal with this sort of molestation.”

“What me? Of course I have.” Striding back across the room Merlin snorted. “Persistent. Handsy. I know the type.”

“I seriously doubt that you’ve ever been mauled by an over-eager debutante in a ball-gown, who’s been at the champagne and has an eye, not to mention a wandering hand, on your, ahem, assets, _Mer_ lin.”

Something deep in Arthur’s mind helpfully supplied a mental vision to go with this statement. One that made something painful clench in his chest, and sent his soulmark tingling. Very odd.

“That’s what _you_ think. _Sir_.” Merlin retorted, his eyes narrowing.

Merlin? Consorting with scantily clad debutantes? That just seemed wrong on so many levels. The very idea made his chest constrict even further, and he swallowed down the sudden discomfort, rubbing distractedly at the soulmark that lodged under the skin of his palm.

Meanwhile, oblivious to the sudden indisposition that his words had wrought, Merlin rummaged around, extracting a hideous dark-green shirt with a white collar, one that Arthur had always hated.

“How about this one? Vile enough for you?”

“Perfect.” Arthur struggled out of his day clothes and took the shirt that Merlin proffered, as if it was armour to protect him from the coming ordeal. Which, in a way, it was.

***

“Have you got any Febreze?” said Merlin, gazing wildly round Gwen’s office. “It’s just that we’ve run out, and he keeps complaining about how the smell of bacon lingers in the curtains....”

“Well hello, Gwen, how are you?” said Gwen, frowning. “Oh, I’m fine thank you for asking, Merlin, how are you? Fine thanks Gwen, do you mind if I come in? Actually, Merlin, I’m in the middle of some important paperwork would you mind coming back later…?”

Shuffling the papers she was examining on her desk, she plonked them down with a thunk. She  removed her reading glasses to stare him down properly.

He gulped at the resigned expression on her face, and mentally backpedalled. He supposed he had rather barged in on her.

“Um. Hello?” He flashed her an apologetic smile. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just…”

“It’s a good thing you’re cute.” Gwen shook her head, but her frown softened into a half smile. “I get it. He’s being impossible again. But in future, I’d appreciate it if you knocked! And you owe me chocolate Hobnobs, buster.” 

“God. I’m so sorry. I’ll get Hobnobs in my next Tesco delivery, I promise.”

Mortified, he bit his lip. Gwen was his friend, he really didn’t want to piss her off with his thoughtlessness.

Still half-smiling, Gwen fished about in her drawer and extracted a bottle, which he took with his unhurt, gloved left hand, gratefully.

“Sorry. You’re a life-saver, Gwen,” he said with a blithe wave of his hand that somehow managed to bash the light shade, setting it rocking so that the room was cast into oscillating shadows. “Ooops, sorry!”

“Only you, Merlin!” Shaking her head, Gwen watched it swing. “Morgana still hasn’t forgiven you for what you did to her favourite Hermès scarf!”

“That was an accident!” Merlin winced. “I wasn’t to know that the lid wasn’t properly on that jar of face cream.”

“And guess who ended up having to try to clean it off?” Gwen folded her arms and eyed him gravely. “Honestly, Merlin! It’s a good thing that I like you! What on earth were you even doing in her room?”

“Erm… trying to find one of Arthur’s ties, he said he’d left it in there, and then I saw her face cream, and I just wanted to see what kind it was...”

Merlin felt bad about lying to Gwen, who was fast becoming one of his closest friends in the palace, but he couldn’t exactly tell her the truth without blowing his cover, so he crossed his fingers behind his back and bit his lip instead.

“You’re as transparent as glass, Merlin.” She smiled properly at him. “I know she’s beautiful, and it seems like most men can’t help themselves around her, but just remember that she doesn’t like you snooping around her things. It’s a bit creepy, to be honest. And if Leon catches you, he’ll have you marched off the premises, pronto!”

“What?” he said, aghast. “Oh! I can see why you might think that, but no, it wasn’t that! Haha! You see, I’m not. Um.” He gaped at her, horrified that she could think that about him. But he was not sure how to put her right on this point without giving himself away in so many ways that he couldn’t count them all. He cast about for the right way to frame his answer. “Um,” he said again, growing hot under the intensity of her stare, and, feeling his way around the words with his tongue. “I wasn’t, it’s not, she’s not really my, I’m… um. I’m of the um. Other. Um. Persuasion?” He winced at his own inarticulacy.

Gwen just carried on staring at him, arms folded, like an interrogation ninja. 

“I mean, I bat for the other team, as it were,” he went on. “Not that I play cricket, haha. No. Anyway, the point is I swear I’m not a stalker, and even if I was, I’d be stalking someone with, as it were, more penises.”

“What do you mean, more penises?” She looked horrified. “Are you implying that you found Mor— the princess’s vibrator?” Her voice dipped to a shocked whisper on the word _vibrator_. “Oh, my God, Merlin! That’s practically treason! Tell me you didn—”

“No, no, no!” he said, hastily. Mortification spread up his cheeks and up to the tip of his ears like a rash. “That’s not it at all! What I’m trying to say, Gwen, is that I like jazz hands. And Barbra Streisand. And Dorothy. I like, um, glitter, interior decorating, and tight leather trousers. On men! I know about the difference between _La Crème_ face cream and _Juergen Klein_ serum! In short, I’m, um, gay. And anyway, I am genuinely interested to know what face cream she uses, I mean, she does have a flawless complexion…”

“Oh, my God!” she said again. “I thought you were a pervy stalker!” She buried her head in her hands. “I’m so sorry, I just assumed… I mean, most guys… You must think I’m so insensitive! I thought…!”

“Not me!” he said, as firmly as he could. “I mean, can’t you tell from my penchant for ironing? That is not average male heterosexual behaviour, let me tell you.”

“George liked ironing,” she pointed out. "And you are really rubbish at it."

“That’s not the point.”

She laughed, and sat back on the edge of her desk, arms crossed. “Does Arthur know?”

“Um.” Merlin’s mind jumped back to the first time he had met Arthur. “Possibly? Should it matter?”

He swallowed, remembering the lazy flip of Arthur’s eyes as they took in Merlin’s lanky frame, Arthur’s sly smile as he watched Merlin’s lips, and wondered if Gwen knew that the prince liked flirting with blokes.

“Oh, no, not at all!” She said, her eyes very round. “I mean, I doubt Arthur would mind, of all people. Haha. Not that he’s - um. Anyway.” She coughed and stared at the ceiling. “It’s not my place. Um. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You’re about as discreet as Hagrid, Gwen,” Merlin said, grinning. Idly, he picked up a stapler shaped like a ladybird from her desk and started to throw it from hand to hand. It felt heavy and cold in his palm. “It’s a jolly good thing that I can keep secrets.”

“You’re a horrible person and I hate you.” She pouted, retrieving her stapler mid-air with great skill. “And you can stop that. You’ll drop it and break something. Plus, you’ve got a nicer room than me. So I’m officially not talking to you. Go away.”

She squirreled the stapler back into her desk drawer.

“Awww, Gwen, don’t be like that.” He grinned his most charming grin. And just then his brain caught up with what she had just said. “Wait. You like my room?”

“Are you kidding? I _love_ that room! I wish I had a nice, bright, white room like that.” She waved at the tired, dim-brown decor and IKEA furnishings that were strewn about her room. “I mean, look at this dingy lot! And you’ve got a view from your window!” Gwen’s window was small, and opened out onto a back yard, so it had a view of a brick wall and little else.

“That’s funny,” said Merlin. “I hate my room! It’s so sterile, and the traffic noise keeps me awake.”

“ _You’re_ the funny one. My room is too quiet!” said Gwen. “I’m a city girl, I miss the sounds of the city.”

“...and yours is so cosy…” Merlin went on, his brain not quite catching up with what he was hearing.

“Stop it, you’ll make me blush.”

“No, no, I mean it. Look!” A wild idea was blossoming in his head and the excitement made heart speed up. “I have a cunning plan!”

***

“You’ve invited Lady Vivian _to stay_?” Arthur groaned. “But Father, King Olaf only visited two months ago, the press are going to start to…”

“And there is no problem with that, Arthur,” said King Uther.

With his perfect posture, honed from years of military training, Uther always managed to look as if he was sitting on the throne, even when, as now, he was merely sitting, stiff-backed upon the the edge of what would otherwise have been a comfortable chair in Arthur’s apartments, sipping tea from a china cup and saucer. With an imperious crook of one finger, he summoned a silent Merlin from the corner. Thankfully, by some miracle, this morning Merlin had managed to leave his usual clumsiness somewhere in the servant's quarters, and therefore refilled the King’s cup without any slips of the fingers, or, just as importantly, his tongue.

“Now, unlike all these so-called _it girls_ who have been queuing up to court you,” Uther went on, with a sneer that showed what he thought of such people, “Lady Vivian would be a perfect match for you,”

 _Not on your nelly,_ thought Arthur. The warm itch of his soulmark flared in agreement. It was time he stood up to his father on this issue, or his wishes would be trampled under the heavy boots of duty, and his life would never be his own.

He took in a deep breath.

“Father, I’ve told you before that I am not suited to marriage,” he said, heart thumping hard. “Even after a marriage of convenience and all the misery that would inevitably follow, the press would quickly get wind of the fact that I am gay. How much better would it be to just to come clean about it, rather than continue this heteronormative facade?”

There was a sudden rattle behind him, followed by a small, pained gasp. Mentally reminding himself to give Merlin the lecture about discretion and eavesdropping, again, later, Arthur willed himself not to turn round to check whether there were any casualties, human or inanimate, and kept his attention trained on his father instead. 

“Nonsense, Arthur.” Ignoring the staff, as usual, Uther gulped down his tea in an economical movement, replacing the cup in the saucer with a sharp rattle that set Arthur’s teeth on edge. “You should court this girl. She is keen on you. I gather from Geoffrey that it is possible to form a soulbond with someone who is not a sexual partner.”

“Father, you can’t be serious.” Aghast, Arthur set his own teacup aside. “Vivian is terrifying! I couldn’t possibly bond with her! Every time she enters the room, all she has to do is flash me a look and my soulmark goes ice cold. I know what that means! I’d be in thrall to her, surely you can’t…”

“A Pendragon will never be a thrall!” roared Uther, as if anyone had any control over the power dynamics that governed anyone’s soulbond. “You are hardly weak, Arthur. You just need to toughen up and take control of the bond. I have considered all the options, and the best bet is to soulbond with Olaf’s daughter. See to it.”

“I will not bond with that woman,” said Arthur through gritted teeth.

“You will do you your duty,” hissed Uther. “And that’s my last word on the matter.”

***

Crown Princess Morgana, Duchess of Dumnonia and head of household at Camelot Palace, was not happy.

“The thing that annoys me most about the whole thing,” she said to Gwen. “The very worst thing about the ridiculous Merlin debacle, is that Arthur just hired him – just hired him on the spot! Without even consulting me on the matter! Me! The head of household! So then I had to do all the work to integrate this completely untrained, disrespectful, graceless peasant, into the royal household. Like that.” She clicked her fingers. “My brother is a feckless, irresponsible prat!”

“But Arthur does have to spend a lot of time with his valet,” pointed out Gwen. “It makes sense for him to hire someone he likes.”

“Stop being so bloody sensible about it!” Morgana took a bite of her chocolate Hobnob, extracted from Gwen’s secret supply. “Anyway, it’s not about Merlin, not really. It’s about Arthur. Why can he not accept my judgment? Why does he have to question every decision I make?”

Morgana liked to think that she was a patient woman. But Arthur had stepped over a line this time.

“I’m sure it’s not personal, my lady,” said Gwen, from behind her desk, where she was shuffling papers, with her usual efficiency. “Besides which, Merlin is adorable! With those big, blue eyes of his, I mean, not that I fancy him, he’s not my type, haha, and I’m anyway, he’s gay, oh shit, I shouldn’t have told you that, but I don’t think it’s a big secret, and he didn’t say I couldn’t, anyway, um, it’s not any of my business, but he’s super kind. And he seems to do Arthur good. He’s brooding a lot less, and laughing a lot more.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good thing.” Morgana frowned. “He still has royal duties to perform and there’s something about Merlin – something seems off. He’s hiding something. I’m not sure that I trust him.”

“His background checks all came back fine.” Gwen put a hand to her mouth, to stifle a yawn.

Come to mention it, she had been yawning a lot, lately, and dark shadows had appeared under her eyes over the past few weeks. As she yawned, she started to cough, a heavy, rattling cough that made her shoulders and curls shake.

“You look tired, of late, Gwen,” said Morgana, with a sudden concern. “Are you ill? Is everything all right? I know I work you hard, but if you need to take some time off?”

“No, it’s fine!” Gwen took a sip of water from the glass on her desk. “It's just..." 

"Just what?" prompted Morgana. 

Gwen sighed. "I... well, I didn't like my quarters, as you know, so I swapped rooms with Merlin, and I haven’t been sleeping well ever since. I just haven’t settled down yet. It’s funny how you get used to a space, isn’t it?” 

“I suppose so.” Morgana looked around her private sitting room. “I’ve always loved this place, for example, but I hate the winter apartments.”

Upon her coming of age, when she was required to move out of the royal nursery into an apartment of her own, Morgana had foregone the usual state apartments assigned to the crown princes and princesses of the land in favour of a smaller flat – a bright, cosy space with a view over the rose gardens. In the summer, the delicate rose fragrance wafted up through the open windows into her rooms. At this time of year, she would get the staff to bring in handfuls of lavender, which generated a natural fragrance that made her feel peaceful, and she could look out across the expanse of green, through the ivy-clad window towards the bare shapes of the empty, winter trees, and dream of the spring. It was a much beloved sanctuary, furnished with her favourite furniture, chosen more for comfort than for its beauty.

“There you go! I just need to get used to the new room. I’m sure I’ll be fine. Now, shall I do your hair?” Without asking, Gwen put down her pen and picked up a jewelled hair brush. “I can talk you through the staffing arrangements for next week’s dinner. Sefa and Daegal are both back, which means that we can move Isolde over to the kitchens again. Oh, and have you got round to replacing Arthur’s head of security yet?”

“No.” Morgana sighed. “I wish that stupid brother of mine wouldn’t keep sacking people. What with both Mordred and George to replace, it’s been an absolute nightmare finding interviewees…”

“Well, at least you don’t have to worry about replacing George any more.” Gwen walked around to the back of Morgana’s chair, and started to brush Morgana’s hair, teasing the strands into an ornate braid that sent little tendrils cascading prettily down the sides of Morgana’s face. It was an action that they both found soothing. “Merlin’s lovely, although…”

Her hand paused for a second.

“Although what?” said Morgana.

“It’s probably nothing.” Gwen resumed brushing. “Just me being silly, I expect. Anyway, about George – I don’t think Arthur sacked him. I think he left – he said he wasn’t feeling well.”

“It’s a shame. He was such a fantastic valet.”

“Poor George.” Gwen twisted another braid up with a deft spin of her fingers, fixing it in place with a clip. “Arthur hated him. Said he was a crushing bore.”

“I know.” Tilting her head forward to accommodate Gwen’s work, Morgana smirked. “That was one of the best things about him.”

“Oh, you two.” Gwen laughed. “I’m sure that one of the reasons why Arthur decided to hire Merlin is just to piss you off!”

“He succeeded.” Morgana sighed. “Anyway, you’ve got a brother. You can’t tell me you never did anything to deliberately annoy each other.”

“I suppose I can’t. Although Elyan was more inclined to annoy me by the things he didn’t do, like clean up after himself, than the things that he did.”

Morgana had met Elyan, and she could just picture Gwen’s face as she scolded him for leaving the loo seat up or dropping his socks on the floor. She laughed, which eased some of the tension and resentment over Arthur’s behaviour. But when she looked back up at Gwen’s tired, drawn face, she couldn’t help the knot of worry that formed in her chest, and she couldn’t completely put her suspicion of Merlin to one side. The damn chap seemed to be everywhere, these days. What’s more, he’d developed an odd tendency to appear out of cupboards whenever she walked past.

A few days later was one such occasion. Outside working hours, when Gwen wasn’t in her private office, Morgana liked to drop in on Gwen’s bedroom from time to time, to catch up on the events of the day – plus, Gwen always had a secret supply of chocolate Hobnobs in her room. Although Morgana adored them, they were deemed too humble for the state apartments, where she always found herself gazing forlornly at her biscuit tin, decorated as it was with the golden Pendragon crest, and then deciding she wasn’t so peckish after all.

Tonight, after a single glance at the delicate, boring old Fortnum and Mason rosewater and lavender biscuits that lurked in the bottom of her tin, she made an abrupt decision and stood up. Slipping a pair of comfortable pumps over her feet, she padded off down the corridor towards Gwen’s new bedroom.

But by some instinct, as she approached, she slowed down. Gwen’s door was ajar, which was odd. But what was more unusual was that she could hear muttering inside. She drew a little closer, holding her breath so as to hear.

“Where could it possibly be?” The voice was unmistakably Merlin’s. In Gwen’s room!

“Gwen?” Frowning, Morgana pushed open the door. “Gwen are you there?”

Gwen wasn’t there. But the room wasn’t empty.

Morgana frowned, more on principle than because of any particular sense of curiosity, but when Merlin whirled round, lifting his hands in the air, he looked so startled and guilty, that her suspicions, never far away, leaped back into her head and started making excited squealing noises.

“Oh! Your Royal Highness!” he bowed low.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she said. “Where’s Gwen?”

“Gwen? Ohhh! You were looking for Gwen?” His face was pink, a sign of a guilty conscience if ever she saw one.

“Yes, as it happens, this being _her room_.” she said, pointedly. “But it seems I have found something much more interesting.” She prowled around him, gazing at his face, wondering what the weasel was hiding. “An intruder. Someone up to no good.”

“What, me?” With a nervous-sounding chuckle, he lifted his eyebrows and flashed her a bright grin that didn’t fool her for a second. “No, not me! I’m just looking for something!”

“What?”

“Hmm?” He bit his lip 

“I said what,” she said sharply. “What are you looking for?”

“Mmn? Oh! What was I looking for? Haha! Oh yes of course, I can see that you might wonder that. Silly me. Ahahaha. Ohhh! Oh look! Here it is! Found it!”

Darting forward, he crouched over Gwen’s bedside table, and pounced on something which he held up to the light. A packet of chocolate Hobnobs, no less.

“Give me those!” she demanded, grabbing them off him, and wondering whether to mention what else she had seen in that split second when he pretended to have found something.

For his eyes had flashed golden, she was sure of it. Oh, he hid it well, that was true, but she had seen that tell-tale bleaching of the irises before, and knew what it meant. Of course she did. She saw it in the mirror every day.

Merlin had magic. And he was lying about something. But the question was, what?

“What are you hiding?” she hissed.

“What, me?” He shrugged, and smiled widely, so that his eyes practically disappeared. “I’m an open book.” But he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“You may fool my little brother with your guileless smile and your Bambi ears,” she said venomously. “But you don’t fool me for a second. You’re up to something. And I’m watching you. I will find out what you are up to, mark my words.”

***

Yawning, Merlin rubbed his eyes to clear away the sleepiness, and peered into the darkness. There it was again! A timid, quiet tap-tap on the door of his little bedroom. Muttering a spell, he set a ball of glowing light above the door, and padded across to it, his feet flinching away from the cold wood of the floor. He pulled the chain back, and peeped outside.

A scared pair of eyes stared back at him, round and black in the darkness.

“Gwen!” Hastily damping the spell, he closed the door, and slid back the chain. She was trembling, her face drawn with fright. He pulled her in for a hug. Her shoulders shook under his fingers. “You’re shaking! Whatever’s the matter?”

“Oh, Merlin, I’m so sorry.” She sniffed onto his shoulder. “I had such a horrible dream, I couldn’t stay in there a second longer. It felt like they were going to catch me! I was so scared, you have no idea! And I tapped on Sefa’s door, but she didn’t answer….”

“It’s all right, Gwen,” he said, as soothingly as he could. “You’re safe now.”

“...goodness only knows if she’s got it together with Daegal again, poor George, but you were the only other person I could think of, and it was a kind of instinct that brought me back to my old room. And I was so scared, I’m so sorry...”

“Poor you!” He patted her back, awkwardly. She was wearing a fluffy dressing gown that felt warm and soft under his fingertips, and a pair of teddy-bear slippers. “What on earth did you dream about?”

“This horrible tall, thin figure was after me, and… I felt such a horrible dread creeping over me, you have no idea!”

Gwen’s dream sounded familiar, somehow. Merlin frowned, not sure what to make of that. He opened his mouth to speak, but she was still talking, so he closed it again.

“And I can’t describe it, the woods, the trees!” She grabbed a tissue out of the pocket of her dressing gown, and blew her nose, noisily, still speaking as she did so. “I mean, they were so scary, I thought they were going to catch hold of me somehow. And the worst thing is that I’ve had this dream before! It seems to get worse and worse every day!”

“That sounds awful, no wonder you feel bad,” said Merlin, tugging her into the room and closing the door. He led her to the chair next to his bed, and sat her down. “Look, stay there for a moment. I’ve got an emergency supply of… hold on…”

He hopped over to his cupboard, hissing against the cold, where he rummaged around in to produce a half-empty bottle of Baileys, and two glasses.

“Voilà! Strictly medicinal, of course.” He sat down on his bed, pulling his legs up underneath himself to keep his feet warm.

“Have you got any more tissues?” She dabbed at her nose.

“By the bed.”

“Oh, thanks.” She pulled one out of the box, wiping under her eyes with it. “It’s a good thing I took my mascara off before bed, or I’d look like a right old tramp.”

“You could never look like a tramp, Gwen.” He poured a generous slug of Baileys into a tumbler, handing it to her.

“Thanks, Merlin.” She took a tentative sip, and flashed him a watery smile. “You’re a good friend.

“There.” He lifted his own glass. “A couple of those will make you feel much better.”

“It was so horrible, and it made my soulmark hurt! It’s still hurting.” She was still trembling, he could see from the hand that held her glass, but the violence of the tremors had calmed down.

“Bloody soulmarks! Mine does that when I’m sad, or angry.” Merlin huffed out a laugh. “They’re wretched and a menace and I wish I could get rid of mine.”

“Seriously?” Her mouth was a giant O in the darkness. “Don’t you believe in destiny?”

“It’s a bunch of crap, Gwen, if you ask me.” He shook his head, and buried his nose in his glass. A familiar, and comforting, chocolatey, creamy, alcoholic scent wafted into his nostrils. He took a grateful sip. “I’ve seen the damage the damn things can do when they go wrong. And what’s with all this airy fairy destiny nonsense, anyway? I mean, you can bond with someone against your will – how is that destiny?”

His soulmark, as if sensing his distress, sent a flare of pain shooting through his hand that made him hiss.

“Hell’s bells.” He clutched his hand to his chest. “There the bloody thing goes again. I should have learned my lesson, by now, not to think about it!”

“It’s hard, when it’s hurting.” Gwen shook her head. “But you have to believe that it’s worth it, when you bond surely? If it’s a successful bond, I mean! Look at Morgana and Leon!”

“Well, not everyone’s that lucky, that’s all I can say. Like I had a friend once, who….” The pain in his soulmark echoed the one that clutched at his chest whenever he thought about Will. “He…. He…. Anyway, um. Look. It doesn’t matter.”

In the end, Gwen couldn’t face walking back to her room in the dark, so Merlin offered to let her stay in his bed while he slept on the floor. He made himself a nest from spare blankets, and turning his back, so that she wouldn’t see his eyes glow, he whispered a spell that let his magic levitate him a bit, for comfort. He'd slept on air, before. More hygienic than student accommodation, and quite comfortable in its own way.

“Are you sure you’re all right down there?” she said.

“Snug as anything, Gwen, I promise.” 

It was true. His magic plumped up his pillow and fluffed his blankets into a cosy cushion that cocooned him as warmly as a hug. 

“What happened to your friend?” Gwen’s voice was soft in the darkness.

Merlin did think for a moment about pretending to be asleep rather than trying to put into words the horrors that had befallen Will.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I’m being nosy, you don’t have to tell me. I expect you’d rather go to sleep.”

“No, I don’t mind.” Merlin swallowed and turned over so that his head was on a cool, new bit of pillow. “It was a long time ago, now. Although it still hurts. You know?”

The room was dark, but the city never slept. Outside, a faint orange glow made its way through the curtains, casting a bronze sheen across Gwen’s dark curls. She was facing him. Her eyes glistened in the darkness.

“I know.” Gwen’s voice was calm but still kind. “You keep the people you care about in your heart, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” He liked the way that she phrased it. “Anyway. I mean. Will. He. He was more than just a friend, you know. Well, he was kind of, you know, my best. Best friend. My straight best friend. I kind of loved him, you know, but like a brother, not like… and anyway, he didn’t, because, you know, straight, so there was no point, haha.”

“I understand,” said Gwen, and damn her, she probably did.

“Well. Um. Anyway, there was a girl. Sophia. He picked her up at some party, the trusting fool. She… she bonded him. In his sleep, and um. Made him a thrall. It was awful. She took his free will away…”

“Oh my God,” whispered Gwen. “How awful!”

“Yeah!” Merlin swallowed, remembering. “And the worse thing was that I could have…  you know, you can imprint over someone’s soulbond, you can… if you love someone, I mean, and I could have, I could have taken away his pain.”

“That’s a heavy price to pay!”

“I could have done it, though.” He shook his head and squeezed his eyes tight shut. “But you’re right, I couldn’t make myself go through with it. I mean, I would have been bonded to him. I would have made him happy, and whole, because I did love him, Gwen, but… but I didn’t, I didn’t want to be bonded. I mean, not to him, he wasn’t even gay! I wanted a bond with someone that I fancied, someone that would fancy me back. Was that selfish?”

It was odd how the words poured out of him, words that he’d kept bottled up for so long. He supposed that the darkness, together with the shared moment of Gwen’s fright, had allowed some part of him to open up, a part that had lain hidden for a long time.

“It’s all right, Merlin, to want to save your bond for the right person!” she pointed out. “No one should have to bond to the wrong person!”

“I know that intellectually, Gwen, but It still feels selfish. Ugh.” He lay on his back, and bashed his head against the pillow. His throat felt tight and his soulmark itched relentlessly but he refused to touch it. Refused to give it that satisfaction.

“Don’t be silly. Another false bond would not have helped him, at all.”

“I suppose not,” he said. It was odd, but her words did offer him some comfort. “Thanks, Gwen.”

“You’re welcome.” She turned over too, so that she lay on her back, gazing at the ceiling. “Now stop brooding about it. My dad always said that a soulmark is a blessing.”

“It doesn’t feel like that, sometimes. Sometimes… Sometimes I just wish I could be rid of it, altogether. My soulmark, I mean.”

“You can’t mean that!” Gwen sounded distressed.

“You say that, but you didn’t see him, Will, I mean, after…” he hesitated for a second. “After…”

“After what, Merlin?” she said. “It’s all right. You can tell me about it. I won’t tell.”

“It’s not that.” It was more that he wasn’t sure whether he could get the words out. “Um. One day, nearly two years ago, he managed to um. Take his… Um… You know. Life. And as for her… she wasn’t even sad, she was… she was _angry_. As if she'd lost a slave, a _thing_ not a living, breathing person.”

“How awful.” Gwen made a distressed sound. “God.”  

“I’ve never known such a cold person.” He shivered, under the warm covers, his skin suddenly feeling clammy. “I hope I never do. She took away my _friend_. And she didn’t even have the grace to be sorry about it.” He was grateful of the darkness that hid his tears.

“Oh, Merlin,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah,” he said, blinking. “So am I.” He sniffed. “God, I’m going to have to stop drinking Baileys. It makes me maudlin!”

“It’s not maudlin to miss your friend,” she said. “And let me tell you something. No matter what you say, or feel, a soulmark is still a blessing. Because it represents hope. It represents the future. I have to believe that, because otherwise, what else is there?”

Merlin didn’t dare answer, because the only person who was capable of kindling his soulmark at the moment remained steadfastly unattainable. Because, even if Arthur wasn’t a prince, and even if Merlin wasn’t (ostensibly) his servant, there was still the thorny problem of all the things that Merlin hadn’t yet told Arthur.

As Gwen’s breathing evened out, it was Merlin who found himself unable to fall asleep.

***

“Come along, Merlin, I haven’t got all night.” Arthur scowled at his valet, who was being even denser than usual. The evening was fast turning to night, and yet, still Arthur’s dress shoes remained stubbornly on the shelf. “Stop lollygagging, and let’s get this damn thing over with.”

“Surely a grown man should have learned how to tie his own shoelaces by now,” grumbled Merlin. “Sometimes I think you only make me do it because you like seeing me grovel around on the floor." He examined Arthur’s extensive shoe collection for the umpteenth time, this time selecting a pair of brown brogues. "Here. Surely these will go nicely with your dinner jacket?”

It was Vivian’s first evening at the palace, and King Uther, damn him, had organised for a formal dinner in her honour. There would be the usual speeches and so forth, but the anticipation of public speaking held little fears for Arthur. No, it wasn’t standing up to speak that made Arthur’s palms feel clammy and his soulmark itch.

“Not those, you ignorant fool.” Rolling his eyes, Arthur snatched away the brogues and replaced them in the correct location. “No one wears brown to dinner. One needs the patent Oxfords.”

“Ohhh, does one!” parroted Merlin, lifting his eyebrows in what he clearly thought was an aristocratic manner. He pointed enquiringly at the Derbies. “These ones, then?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Arthur threw his hands up in mock despair. “Didn’t Bayard teach you anything, you chuckle-headed bumpkin?”

Merlin shrugged, with a bright and utterly vacant smile that made Arthur wonder if the man had been dropped on the head as a baby. 

“These ones, you bumbling buffoon.” Giving up and grabbing the correct shoes off the shelf, Arthur strode off into his dressing-room and sat down upon a stool, holding out his foot with an expectant pout. “And bring a duster. They’ve got fingerprints on.”

“That’s only because you insisted on carrying them in your ungloved hand, you entitled prat!”

Merlin followed him in, duster in hand, and sat on the floor, buffing at the shoes ineffectually before opening one up and applying it, open end first to Arthur’s socked foot.

“Not like that!” Arthur scolded. “You’ll break the back of the shoe! Go and get the shoehorn.”

“Go and get the shoe horn,” mimicked Merlin in a sing-song voice.

Scowling, he dropped the shoe on the floor and turned onto his knees, putting one hand on the floor. As he rose to his feet, Arthur definitely did not ogle the way his pert little bum wiggled in those snug, Camelot Palace uniform trousers. Well, maybe a little bit. But not so as anyone (Merlin) would notice.

“God, you really are the most terrible valet.” Arthur called after his retreating back, although he was grinning so hard it made his mouth ache. “No wonder Bayard sacked you!”

“I’ve told you a million times, you over-entitled clotpole, he didn’t sack me! I _resigned_.” Merlin emerged from Arthur’s walk-in cupboard clutching a long yellow shoe-horn.

“Hoping to beat him to it, were you?” chuckled Arthur.

“I’ll have you know that Bayard never once made any complaints about my service!” said Merlin. “He was a perfect gentleman - unlike some stuck-up, sarcastic prats I could mention...”

“If he was so lovely, whyever did you leave him, then?” Arthur grinned. “Go on. Admit it. You like me.”

“I do not.” This time, by some miracle, Merlin opened the shoe up carefully with gloved hands, and applying the shoehorn to allowing it to glide effortlessly over the plain black silk of Arthur’s sock. “As if I could actually like an admittedly handsome but otherwise imperious bossy-boots like you.”

“There you are,” said Arthur, smugly, with a triumphant wiggle of his toes. “You think I’m handsome.”

George had never made him feel like this – relaxed and at ease, bantering about stupid things. Even though the upcoming dinner would be a horrific ordeal by any stretch of the imagination, this sort of back and forth with Merlin was a welcome distraction. But it would be an ordeal, there was no doubt about that. Vivian was bad enough on her own, without the approving stares of their respective fathers egging her on. If he managed to get through the night without an accidental soulbond on his hands, it would be a blasted miracle.

The thought made his lips droop down sourly.

“Stop brooding,” said Merlin, looking up at him through fanned lashes. “You do have a say in this, you know.”

And that was another thing that George hadn’t ever got the hang of. It was spooky how Merlin could read Arthur’s rapid shifts in mood, as if they were in some sort of emotional alignment. No sooner had this thought occurred to Arthur than a sudden comforting tingle surged through Arthur’s soulmark.

“Do I?” Arthur pressed his lips together and then blew them out again “That’s not what it looks like from where I’m sitting.”

Merlin rocked back on his heels and undid the laces of the other shoe in preparation.

“Of course you do,” he said, holding out the open shoe. “You should never have to bond with someone that is not your choice. A long time ago, my mate Will…”

Arthur tuned out Merlin’s voice, soothing and low as he related the story, and focused instead on the sharp angle of Merlin’s cheekbones, the soft drone of his voice, the hypnotic movement of his lips and his long fingers. When he was kneeling like that, Merlin’s lashes, lowered as he concentrated on Arthur’s footwear, fanned out in thick, sooty whorls upon the pale pink of his cheek, and Arthur could not look away.

It made something soft and fond blossom in Arthur’s chest. His soulbond warmed in acknowledgment.

Surely Merlin must feel it, too? Arthur’s soulbond had not been so closely attuned to someone else’s since he had roomed with the heir to a minor Scottish earldom, Gareth Fairfax-Menteth, in Year Thirteen at Eton.

They’d never taken their gloves off, back then, him and Gareth. No, they’d not gone the full distance in that sense, but they had kissed and made out and traded messy fumbles for weeks and weeks, going one little step further each time, until finally they crossed all of the sexual lines they could think of.

It had been a glorious summer, leading up to their A Levels, and both of them knew that it could have been the beginning of something more permanent, if they had let it. But then Arthur let stupid duty stay his hand, and Gareth drifted away, back up to Lothian, where he settled down with some sturdy country lass with a solid knowledge of horse flesh, and that was that. Arthur had a succession of relationships since then, of course, with both men and women - what hot-blooded aristocrat in their twenties hadn’t? But none of them had made his soulbond swell and tingle with such a thrilling sense of anticipation, none of them had made it throb and heat when proximity and emotional tension sent his pulse racing - not until now.

Now? If he would only admit it to himself, he felt more in tune with Merlin than he had with anyone else in his life. It was as if Merlin's soul vibrated at a specific frequency that resonated deep in Arthur’s, sometimes with a thrilling intensity that made him feel quite giddy.

“…ended up in thrall to her, and… oh, God, you don’t want to know about all that, Arthur. Just… Yeah. Be careful. A soulbond is not to be taken lightly. Keep that glove on, that’s my advi—”

“But what if she drugs me?” Interrupted Arthur, misery staining his voice. “What if she tries to coerce me? What if my father tells her to?”

“That would be horrendously unethical, not to mention horribly illegal, and painful for either you or your bonded partner, depending on which of you manages to wrest control of the bond.” Merlin shook his head. His tongue poked out of this mouth as he focussed on tying the lace on Arthur’s right shoe. “You should not have to submit to anything like that! And neither should she! A soulbond must be an equal match, between willing partners. Otherwise it is destined to fail, with one soul in thrall to the other, everyone knows that.”

He shuddered, his shoulders visibly shaking.

“But how can I have an equal match with anybody?” said Arthur. “The princesses that the five kingdoms keep throwing at me, although equally ranked, all seem wrong to me. Vivian is cold and terrifying, and I’m sure she’d have me in thralldom, doing her bidding before you could say _designer handbag_. Mithian is nice, but a bit passive, I’d dominate her too easily…”

“Huh. I can see that!” said Merlin. “Not many people can stand up to a bully like you!”

“You don’t seem to find it difficult!”

“I’m special.” Merlin grinned, and how true that was. “Surely there are other, more feisty princesses?”

“Well, you would think,” said Arthur. “I suppose Elena could work, but I know she’s more interested in horses than soulmates, and I couldn’t do that to her.”

Swallowing, Arthur tore his eyes away from the alluring gleam of Merlin’s twinkling eyes and instead examined a portrait of his great-aunt, to lower his pulse rate. If only Merlin knew that there was one person who made his soulmark glow in adoration, and the sight of that person currently kneeling in front of him was enormously distracting.

“Besides which, they’re all women.” Merlin smiled a wan, sympathetic smile. “I suppose you’d rather be with a prince.”

“Huh!” Arthur huffed out an answering laugh. “That’s even worse. There’s Agravaine, who, apart from being my uncle, is twice my age and as slimy as muck. And then there’s Cenred, who would kill me as soon as look at me… and that’s it.”

“Do they have to be the same rank as you?” Merlin hummed as he attempted to buff out a smudge on the left shoe with a duster. “With Morgana as the Crown Princess, surely in this day and age, you could marry whoever you like. It’s more important that they are on the same page as you emotionally than the same rank as you.”

“Oh, very clever, Merlin.” Arthur stretched his legs out, examining the shine on his shoes and the crease on his trousers. “Where am I going to meet someone like that? I can’t exactly roll up to some gay night club and introduce myself to someone I fancy. I can see how that would go. _Hi, I’m Prince Arthur, fancy a shag? Oh, and by the way, would you mind filling in this disclaimer form? My personal private secretary will be in touch to administer the Briggs Myers personality test as I’m looking for a compatible soul mate._ You missed a bit, there.”

“Clean it yourself, clotpole.” Merlin shrugged, but attacked the spot on the shoe anyway. “Anyway, you could try it. It’s better than sitting around waiting for some doom-laden princess-related scenario to be foisted on you.”

“I can’t see it being an attractive proposition for anyone with any sense.” Frowning, Arthur gazed at the window, where moonlight streamed through, making pale streaks where it fell onto the floor. “I mean, would any of your friends fall for that sort of thing?”

“No.” Merlin shook his head. “But then, they’re mostly straight. Anyway, I wasn’t thinking of some stranger, picked up in a club. What about someone you work with, someone you interact with every day?”

“A member of staff, you mean? Need I remind you about the ethical problems with that?”

“It’s how most people find a mate.” Merlin shrugged.

In contrast to the heavy thud-thud of Arthur’s heart, the room had gone still, and the sounds of the city outside were muted somehow, as if the whole land was holding its breath for some grand, important moment. If this was a movie, the music would quieten now, leaving only the expectant beat of the drums. Waiting. 

“What about you, Merlin?” Heart pounding, Arthur searched Merlin’s face for a sign of an emotional reaction to match his own. “You stand up to me, and for me, every day. What would you think about bonding to the Prince?”

“Me? Really?” Merlin’s widening smile made his cheeks bunch up under his eyes. “You’re asking me that? You’re my boss! How could we ever be emotional equals?”

“I suppose so.” Arthur felt his own hopeful smile fade. Disappointment gripped his throat, making his voice sound hoarse. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

The sound of traffic returned.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Rolling his eyes, Merlin threw the duster down onto the floor, and leaned back on his heels. Their eyes met. “If it came to it, I suppose there would be worse things than being bonded to a kind, noble clotpole with a gorgeous arse and an entitlement complex. And my soulmark certainly agrees…. But if you ever mention it in public, I will kill you.”

“Agreed.” The relief made Arthur chuckle. “In principle, at least.”

“In principle,” Merlin nodded. “That’s what I meant.”

“Well. Thank you,” said Arthur. “And I. Um. In principle, at least, I, um. You, um. You should know that I, um. I… I feel the same way. If, you know. The time was right, and all that.”

The confession may have been lumbering. But it felt good to blurt it out, even though it made Arthur’s cheeks heat and his skin prickle.

“Thanks,” said Merlin, softly.

They held each other’s eyes for a long moment, but Merlin was the first to look away.

Arthur cleared his throat. “So, you can see, I don’t want to be bonded to a princess. Will you help me? Please.”

“Of course I will.” Merlin looked up again, his eyes a startling shade of blue, highlighted by the bright dressing-room light. “Always.”

Arthur stood up and gazed down upon his immaculately tied shoes, and wished for something, he couldn’t say what it was exactly, not out loud, but his heart knew. And his soulbond knew. Without thinking, he held out his gloved right hand.

Merlin bit his lip and stood up to meet it with his own. They locked eyes. Suddenly, Arthur’s gloved right hand was pressing firmly into Merlin’s. Only two thin sheets of fabric separated their soulmarks. Arthur could feel the warmth of Merlin’s, the throb of his pulse as if it glowed beneath his glove, as if it was calling to his own. In a heady counterpoint to the fast thrum of Merlin’s heartbeat, Arthur’s own heart hammered wildly against his rib cage. He swallowed.  

“I promise to protect you from being the victim of an accidental or unwanted soulbond, or to die in the attempt,” said Merlin, his pupils blown wide, face utterly solemn, as if uttering an unbreakable vow before witnesses.

“Likewise.” Arthur said hoarsely. He was close to thinking that the time was right already.

Merlin shook Arthur’s hand: once, twice, three times.

Arthur let his head dip forward, narrowing the gap between them. Merlin’s eyes fluttered closed. This was it! This was the moment! In his head, the string section of the orchestra swept into a deep crescendo, the sound swelling and filling his heart until—

There was a sudden rumble of thunder outside, and the carriage clock on Arthur’s mantle shelf rang out the hour. Merlin released his hand as if scalded, and cleared his throat.

“Goodness, is that the time? Well, I’d better, um…” his fingers smoothed at the line of Arthur’s lapel, straightened the crease of his bow tie. “It was a bit skewiff… there. That’s…” 

“Merlin?” Their faces were so close that Merlin’s breath gusted warm against Arthur’s neck. 

“Mmm?”

“Thank you,” he breathed, and he wasn’t talking about the knot on his tie.

***

Much to Arthur’s chagrin, he was seated between Morgana and Lady Vivian at dinner, with both their fathers opposite them. It was an intimate dinner, with only some forty or so guests, and given the immense talents of the kitchen team, it would otherwise have been a breeze – maybe even fun – but Arthur felt on edge, with Vivian so close to his right hand.

The waiting staff bustled around the room, all of them with specific duties keeping them busy. Meanwhile, most of the time, Merlin stood behind Arthur’s chair, as Arthur had stipulated. But of course, Merlin being Merlin, he occasionally loomed into view, in direct contravention of all royal protocols. It should have been annoying, but Arthur actually found it a bit reassuring. 

After all, although Arthur was a strong man, and Vivian would never be able to wrestle his glove off without his consent, he couldn’t help feeling jumpy.

After that, he sulked in silence for a bit, toying with his napkin. But his father cleared his throat, pointedly, and tilted his head towards Vivian in an obvious gesture to get Arthur to start the conversation. Sighing, Arthur braced himself for the onslaught.

He turned to Vivian.

She stared back at him, as if she was trying to decide whether to ditch the soup and eat him instead, and if so, what sauce she’d like to have him with.

“Ahem,” he said, as the waiting staff brought out the soup course. “Well. Um. Nice weather we’ve been having. For the time of year, I mean.”

“Mmm?” Vivian simpered. “Oh yes, simply adorable.”

At his left elbow, Morgana snorted. He ignored her, focussing instead on the delicate, meaty fragrance of the consomme that steamed in front of him. It smelled too good to waste. He picked up his spoon, and promptly dropped it again when Vivian’s left hand settled demurely upon his right wrist, and she pulled at the cuffs of his jacket to reveal his cufflinks.

“Oooh, penguins!” she squealed in a high-pitched voice that made Arthur wince. “I adore penguins! How adorable, Arty!”

“Is there a problem with your soup, sir?” Merlin hovered near his right shoulder, giving Arthur an ideal excuse to pull his hand away. “Shall I take it back to the kitchen?”

“No, no. It’s delicious.”

He picked up his spoon again, grateful for the distraction. The consomme was amazing, as always. Just the right texture, clear and intensely flavoured. But he struggled to focus on the taste, his nerves were too distracting.

Looking up, seeing his father’s interested eyes on him, Arthur thought he had better continue his conversation with Vivian. He wondered if taking a leaf out of George’s book might help to put Vivian off. Would it be possible to bore her into rejecting him? He’d once spent a long flight out to visit troops in Afghanistan with only a book about penguins for company.

“They’re Adelie penguins, actually,” he said.

“Really?” she said, breathlessly, fluttering her lashes.

“Indeed.” He pitched his voice at his most pompous, monotonic drone. “One of the few penguin success stories, at the moment. Their colonies have actually increased in size over the past few years, especially in East Antarctica.”

Damn. It wasn’t working. Her gaze was still fixed raptly upon his lips as he spoke.

“God help us all,” Morgana whispered.

Jabbing her sharply in the ribs with an indignant elbow, he coughed and ploughed on, heroically.

“The future is not bright, though, I’m afraid, because they live on sea ice, which is of course all melting, now. They frequently display homoerotic behaviour, did you know?”

There was a loud snort from behind him. Arthur made a mental note to reprimand Merlin later.

“Fascinating,” said Vivian, faintly.

Sparkling conversation, it was not. But he kept going, in as dreary a tone as he could manage, realising that seeming to continue the conversation would be the only way of deflecting the weight of his father’s disapproval. Morgana’s occasional barbs didn’t help, but the warm presence of Merlin at his back was comforting, in a way. Even if he did keep punctuating Arthur’s carefully thought out speech with inappropriate sniggers and throat-clearings.

“...now, in contrast, the southern rockhopper penguin breeds in temperate climates…”

Eventually, despite her valiant efforts, during the fish course, Vivian’s eyes began to glaze over. As she deftly tackled her Dover Sole with the palace silver, she tried very hard to hide her yawn behind her gloved left hand, but it wasn’t very convincing.

“…one of three crested species…” 

Arthur felt a sudden stab of triumph, and necked his white burgundy with satisfaction. But unfortunately, the wine seemed to make Lady Vivian slightly giggly, and she leaned into him, her left elbow abutting his right, patting his forearm with a proprietary air. Little wonder that he felt wound-up and jumpy.

Worse, later on, she imbibed liberally of the Sauternes with her dessert, and started to actually stroke his arm, her hand getting closer and closer to the edge of his sleeve with each stroke.

When she went off into a long peal of giggles, he turned to Morgana for help.

“Morgana,” he hissed out of the corner of his mouth. “Save me!”

“I’m terribly sorry, little brother,” she said, with a sneer that made his heart sink. “Since you clearly don’t seem to need my input in your hiring decisions any more, I couldn’t possibly interfere in matters of the heart.”

“Morgana, please!”

But instead of helping, she shot a dirty look at a startled-looking Merlin, and returned to her animated discussion of some ridiculous celebrity television show with Leon.

“What did I do?” mouthed Merlin to Arthur, clearly forgetting that that he was not meant to address any of the royal family unless spoken to, first.

Arthur returned, with a doom-laden feeling, to his conversation with a tipsy Vivian. Soon, she was insinuating one gloved finger beneath his cuffs again. Shying away from her hand, he in turn tried desperately to move further and further away. He looked wildly around for support. But Morgana was busy frowning at Merlin, and when he caught his father’s eye, Uther actually winked, which he was sure breached the royal etiquette guidelines in a hundred different ways.

In desperation, Arthur signalled for a top-up of his own dessert wine.

“Oh, Arty-Poo!” said Vivian, fixing her eyes upon him, as she licked chocolate mousse off her spoon with a lascivious pout. Dabbing at her mouth with her napkin, so that it ended up covered in bright lipstick and chocolate stains, she dropped it back into her lap, and pressed her hand to his forearm. “You look so handsome, tonight. I feel so close to you. Tell me you feel it too!”

“Vivian!” he protested, squirming in his seat, and using his need to take a sip of his wine as a subtle excuse to wrestle away his arm without making a scene. “It’s hard not to feel close to you. You’re practically on my lap!”

“Oh, Arty, don’t be like that!” A sly look made her eyes narrow and her lips purse. “Could you find a waiter for me? I need some more of this delicious wine.” She downed the rest of her drink in one glug, and held out her empty glass for more.

Oh, God.

“Of course.”

Putting his own glass down, Arthur looked up and signalled to a waiting sommelier. But as he looked away, there was a sudden screech that made the conversation dim.

All heads turned to Vivian, who was literally quivering with suppressed outrage.

“What’s up, Viv?” But when he turned back to her, it was obvious.

Vivian’s glass of dessert wine was now on its side, and its contents were discharging freely all over the tablecloth, and from there onto Vivian’s napkin and lap.

“You!” Standing up, she pointed a trembling finger at Merlin. “You did that on purpose!”

“Oops!” Merlin’s face bore an expression of studied innocence.

Arthur recognized that expression. It was the one that generally emerged following breakages of fine, irreplaceable antique porcelain. His sense of foreboding intensified.

“So sorry, your ladyship,” said Merlin, with a bright grin. “I am sure the spillage will mop up. Here, let me!”

Grabbing a napkin, he dabbed at Vivian’s powder-blue silk evening dress, which Arthur was sure merely served to spread his spilt glass of dessert wine across a wider area than before.

“Stop it!” Vivian shrieked furiously, and batted at Merlin’s oh-so-helpful hands.

“No offence meant!” Merlin lifted his hands and stepped back. “I just wondered what you put in that gl—” 

But Vivian cut off his words with a shrill squeal, and pounced at something that lay sparkling on the table amid the ruins of her drink.

“Oh look! Oh, Arty!” she cried, in a voice so high-pitched that it silenced the room again and made Arthur’s eardrums hurt. “You shouldn’t have! Oh, Arty, you old romantic, you! You must have dropped it in my glass when I wasn’t looking!”

She held a large diamond ring up to the light, with a exultant smile. Where the hell had that come from? Arthur gawped at it, and then up at Merlin, who looked equally perplexed.

“Of course I will marry you, dear Arty! Yes! Yes! I do, you clever thing!“ she simpered, which involved the most revoltingly self-satisfied giggle that Arthur had ever heard. “Fancy getting your valet to spill my drink on purpose, so that I could find the ring! Well I can forgive a ruined dress to be blessed with such a handsome fiancé!”

“What?” blurted Merlin. “But I didn’t…”

“How very romantic,” drawled Morgana. “Congratulations on your engagement, little brother.”

After a moment of confusion, King Olaf and King Uther stood up and clapped, and the assembled courtiers whooped and cheered and hurrah’ed and stamped their feet.

                                                                       

Confused, Arthur backed his chair away from the table. How the hell had this happened? He couldn’t see a way out of his predicament that wouldn’t cause a diplomatic stir. He looked around wildly for inspiration, finding only a poleaxed-looking Merlin.

“Help me!” Arthur mouthed.

“Um. Sir, you look a little… um… pale,” said Merlin, inserting a skinny arm under Arthur’s armpit and  pulling him out of his chair. “Perhaps the um… excitement… might I suggest that you go and powder your, um. Nose?”

“My nose does not need powder, Merlin” growled Arthur, swaying a little bit, thanks to the extra glass of dessert wine. “I’m not a swooning maiden.”

“It’s a euphemism,” Merlin hissed in an undertone. “I’m rescuing you. Try to look groggy.” He slipped an arm around Arthur and started to tug him towards the exit, adding, in a loud voice, “Dear me, sir, nausea, you say?”

“Arty, darling, where are you going?” Vivian’s voice was sweet as honey.

“The prince isn’t feeling well,” called Merlin over his shoulder to the assembled company. “Must be all that consomme. Went down the wrong way. Uh-oh! This could get messy! He’s a puker!”

There was a ripple of sympathetic laughter that made Arthur roll his eyes.

“I am not a puker!” objected Arthur in an undertone. “Could you at least try not to humiliate me further?”

“And there was me expecting gratitude!” Merlin whispered back.

They sort of half-walked, half-staggered through the exit and into the comparative peace of the hallway outside the grand dining room. A pair of security guards parted to let them through. Arthur let out a relieved sigh. Only to groan when he noticed the group of people streaming out in their wake.

“Arty! Wait for me!”

Oh, God. Vivian was one of them. No doubt she would follow him until he was vulnerable and alone, and pounce on him the moment that everyone else’s back was turned.

“Get me away from here, quick!” Arthur muttered behind his hand.

Merlin grasped him a little tighter around the waist, and steered him away from the diners and along the hallway towards the royal loos. But Arthur didn’t want to go in there. The chances were that his father would follow him, or worse Vivian’s father, and he really couldn’t face the man-to-man talk and back-slapping that would inevitably follow.

“On it.” Turning his back on the assembled crowds, Merlin cocked him a half smile and held out his hand. He whispered some odd-sounding words, and his eyes glowed a molten gold.

“What the h—”

“Shut up, clotpole,” whispered Merlin under his breath. “I’m creating a distraction. Watch!”

As Arthur watched, open-mouthed, a curious-looking orb of blue light appeared, on the other side of the hall. It bobbed and hovered obligingly down the corridor, away from them.

“Close your mouth, you’ll catch flies.” Merlin grinned. “Oh, yeah, by the way, I can do magic. Hope that’s okay.”

“But…”

“Let’s not waste my perfectly good distraction, shall we?” Merlin swivelled on his feet, and pointed away from Arthur, towards the orb. “Oh my God! What the hell’s that?” he yelled.

Among the milling courtiers and attendants, a sprinkling of heads turned. Someone shrieked. Then there was a whole lot more pointing, and shrieking, and a good deal of screaming.

“It’s going that way. Chase it!” Merlin yelled. “Quick!”

But Arthur didn’t have time to fret about the sudden knowledge that his valet could seemingly perform miracles, because, while everyone was occupied with chasing the orb, Merlin pressed open a cupboard door and pushed Arthur inside.

“Stay there, and keep quiet,” said Merlin. “I’ll get rid of this lot.”

The door closed behind him, leaving Arthur in blissful silence and darkness, amid what seemed to be stacks of clean linen, a conclusion that he confirmed by pulling out his phone and turning on the torch function.

“”Where is the prince?” someone cried, outside. “The prince has disappeared! Sorcery!”

As if summoned, his phone beeped, alerting him to incoming texts from Morgana and his father. Groaning, he switched the damn thing off completely, and sank back onto some fluffy blankets.

“The Prince? Didn’t he go back to his chambers?” Merlin’s disembodied voice floated through the keyhole. “He wasn’t feeling well, Your Royal Majesty, sir, no, I don’t know where he’s gone. What, me? No, Your Majesty, I haven’t seen him for the last few minutes! Not in his apartments, you say? Maybe he went to Lady Morgana’s chambers?”

With a heavy sigh, Arthur curled up into a ball and pulled a blanket over his head. It was calm, here in the darkness of the cupboard, and the blankets smelt of lavender. He liked lavender. Innocent lavender. Sweet lavender. Kind lavender, that didn’t try to trick him into unwanted engagements and so forth.

He thought he might stay put, for a bit, and listen through the door while Merlin talked his way out of this. After all, it was what Merlin was good at. Talking, that was. Talking, whilst saying very little. A knack, that. And, it turned out, doing magic. Also, looking enticing, especially in the lip department, but also around the neck area. Merlin was very good at that – at looking enticing, and making Arthur’s soulmark tingle. Not that Arthur could ever let on.

It was tingling now. If you could call it tingling. Maybe, with British understatement, you could call what was happened to his soulmark when he thought about Merlin’s lips a tiny tingle. In the same way that you could call a full-blown riot something like a spot of bother. Was that something to do with his arcane abilities as well?

“Oh, hello, Lady Morgana. I mean, your honour. Highness. Ma’am. Um. What, Prince Arthur? No, no, he isn’t in the gents loo. Maybe he went to your father’s apartments? I mean, an engagement is a pretty big deal…”

Sighing, Arthur sunk into his lavender-y blankets and thought indulgent thoughts about lips and ears and cheekbones, which transmuted mid-think into less soothing thoughts about conniving princesses, magic, accidental engagements and soulbonds. Meanwhile, outside the door, the muffled thud thud of thundering feet heralded an ongoing search for the missing Prince. Above everything, he could hear Merlin, yelling out misdirections.

Merlin. God. What a conundrum his valet was becoming. What with the magic, and the lips, and the cheekbones, and ugh, that pert little bum.

***

Merlin knocked quietly on the door to Lady Vivian’s guest apartments.

“Come in,” trilled a girlish voice.

Pushing through the door, Merlin bowed low in what he hoped was an appropriate approximation of the correct etiquette, and waited.

“Ah, it’s you.” Lady Vivian’s voice cooled dramatically. “The oh-so-clumsy valet. Where is my fiancé?”

“He’s on his way, your Grace. Majesty. Highness. Royalness.” Straightening, Merlin gulped as he gazed into a pair of cold, blue eyes, eyeing him through the reflected medium of an ornate dressing-room mirror. “Um.”

It was a couple of days later, and so far Arthur had managed to elude the imperious little princess – but he wouldn’t be able to keep it up forever.

“Dear God. You really don’t have a clue, do you? What gutter did he pluck you from, I wonder?” Her hand paused upon her hairbrush, and she turned. Her stare sharpened into one of haughty disdain. “Go and get dear Arty, would you, boy? I would converse with _my fiancé_.” She uttered the words “my fiance” with a possessive air of gleeful anticipation that made Merlin want to grimace.

“Um, Prince Arthur asked me to tell you that he is on his way, your royal graciousness,” Ignoring her sneer, Merlin pressed on. “Um. And, I must say, I have to tell you that I do admire your compassion!”

“Compassion? What do you mean?” she said, absently. She turned back to the mirror and resumed brushing her golden locks.

“Yes. Not many people would be prepared to take on someone with Arthur’s… um… indisposition.” He smiled, crossing his fingers behind his back.

“Indisposition? What indisposition?” She turned round again, and a line appeared between her eyes, a crease on her otherwise flawless skin. 

“What? You mean you didn’t know?” Merlin bit his lip, and backed towards the door. “Oh! Whoops, I suppose it’s not common knowledge, but I’d have thought they’d have warn— oh, there I go again, blethering on about nothing.”

“Didn’t know about what?” Her mouth turned down into a sour upturned U. “What is wrong with Arthur?”

“Nothing! Nothing at all! Um. Sorry! Forget I said anything, your worshipfulness!”

“Forget you said what?”

“Me? Did I say something? Silly me, I didn’t say anything! Oh, is that the time? I have to go! It’s nearly time for Arthur’s… I mean, Arthur will want me to… I mean, I’ve got to, um. Urgent. So you see, I’ll be off. Um. It’s been a pleasu—”

“Come back here at once, you blabbering blatherskite!” She yelled, in a piercing voice that made Merlin wince. “I order you to come back and tell me what is wrong with Arthur!”

“Got to go, your goodness graciousness royal highness madam!” Bowing and backing away at the same time, he fixed his most deranged smile to his face. “Sorry! Bye!”

Panting, he ducked backwards through the door. He turned on his heel and hurtled, at full speed, away from her room, and darted into a broom cupboard. Hastily slamming the door behind him, he leaned against it, desperately trying to keep down the noise of his own panting.

His now encyclopedic knowledge of the palace’s storage facilities, although it had got him no further in his original mission, had been coming in super handy, of late.

Just in time. A heavy tap-tapping along the wood floor outside the door indicated that she had decided to chase after him. But her stilettos were evidently slowing her down.

He leaned against the door, suppressing a chuckle.

***

It was a few days later, and Arthur was examining the headlines of _The Daily Comet_ with satisfaction.

“I don’t know how you did it, Merlin, but I’m truly grateful.”

“All part of my duties, sir,” said Merlin, with a smirk.

“I suppose you impugned my intelligence or personal hygiene in some way…” Arthur added, “but, this once, given the outcome, I will let it slide.”

“Very generous of you.” Merlin’s smirk did not diminish one iota, confirming Arthur’s worst suspicions.

It had taken a couple of days for the story to filter into the press. But the two pages devoted to Princess Vivian’s description of her allegedly heart-wrenching decision to end her engagement, together with her heart-to-heart expose of what she described as the “untold tragedy at the heart of the palace”, did much to soothe Arthur’s anxieties.

“It’s amazing how she manages to say absolutely nothing in two whole pages,” added Arthur, scanning the opinion piece for facts and finding them wanting.

“It’s a skill, sir,” said Merlin, impassively.

“Sometimes, Merlin, I think you get your valeting tips from reading P.G. Wodehouse – tell me, are you about to start quoting Schopenhauer, and extolling the virtues of eating fish?”

“No, sir.” Merlin fumbled with the tea tray and promptly dropped sugar on the floor. “Bugger.”

“Ah, there’s the insubordinate incompetent that I have grown to know and… well. Like is a strong word. Tolerate!” drawled Arthur. “Nice to have you back.”

Merlin muttered something that may or may not have been “insufferable, arrogant clotpole,” but Arthur let it slide. After all, the sulky tilt of Merlin’s eyebrow and the mutinous pout that plumped his lips made for a very pleasant view.

Abandoning the tea tray in front of Arthur with a crash that made him wince, Merlin turned his attention to a pile of clean, freshly pressed laundry, his pert little bottom waving aloft, most enticingly. Arthur swallowed and looked down at his cooling tea.

“Sir?”

“Ahem.” Realising that he’d been gazing at said tea for just a tad too long, Arthur flicked his eyes away, clearing his throat, and cast about for a another topic of conversation. “Anyway, it looks like Morgana has foisted her half-sister’s favourite nephew on me as a so-called security detail again. Honestly, if she based her recruiting decisions on competence, rather than whether they will piss me off or not, we’d all be a lot better off.”

“Why? What don’t you like about him?” Humming, Merlin attempted to coax a pair of Arthur’s best dress trousers onto a hanger, with mixed success. “These damn things have got a mind of their own, I swear.”

“No they haven’t, it’s quite simple.” With an impatient frown, Arthur demonstrated a near perfect fold, placing the clips along the trouser’s belt hooks, and gestured towards the wardrobe. “Voilà!”

“Pardon me for my not quite perfect folding technique,” said Merlin. “Is that why you sacked your previous valet?”

“I didn’t sack him.” Arthur sighed, and collapsed back down into this chair, raking his hands through his hair. “He disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” Merlin gave him a startled look, the one that resembled a rabbit about to flee. “Whyever would he do that?”

“He hadn’t been sleeping well, I think there was something eating at him.” Arthur shrugged. “A guilty conscience, perhaps? He took something from my room, something very little, a um. A toy. So I didn’t say anything about it. But then a few days later he came in, stated that he couldn’t stand it any more, they were coming to get him. And then he ran off, down the corridor outside my chambers, screaming!”

“How very odd.”

“Indeed! He left a most peculiar note.” said Arthur. “The funny thing is, you’re going to think me foolish, but… I’d been having nightmares myself… really weird ones, but they cleared up, about a week before he left… funnily enough, around the time when he stole the, ahem...”

Arthur’s voice trailed off and he frowned, thinking back to the day in question. It had been about a week before he met Merlin. The day when that little girl had cornered him in the park, and given him her toy. He’d liked it, but it had gone missing shortly afterwards, and when he confronted George about it, the man went all coy.

“I don’t think you’re foolish.” Merlin’s eyes were dark and calm, an oasis, as far from ridicule as they could get. “After all, I’m a magic user. Strange dreams are like bread and butter to me.”

“Ah yes, the magic.” Arthur fixed his eyes on the ceiling. “You didn’t think to mention that when I interviewed you?”

“If you can call it an interview!” Merlin snorted. “It was more of a lengthy session of being mocked, to be frank. Anyway, I find that my magic is not necessarily a selling point for potential employers, except— anyway. Not everyone’s looking for a warlock to launder their clothes etc, they’re more interested in stuff like whether I can iron or not.”

“Except what?”

“Hmm?”

“You were going to say something, and you stopped,” said Arthur, wondering how he managed to lose track of the conversation yet again. Merlin was as slippery as an eel, sometimes. “What were you going to say.” 

“Ah.” Merlin worried at his bottom lip with his tooth. “Um. Arthur?”

“Mmm?” said Arthur. Sensing that he was close to finding out something important, he pressed his lips together to avoid saying anything that would make Merlin clam up again.

Shrugging, Merlin gazed at the ceiling for a moment. “Um.”

After managing to maintain his patience for about ten seconds, Arthur couldn’t bear it for a moment longer.

“Spit it out, Merlin,”  he growled. “I don’t have all day.”

“Right.” Merlin blinked and gazed down at his fingernails. “Um. Well.” He looked up again, his eyes a worried blue in the harsh light of Arthur’s dressing room. “Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but as I told Gaius, he’s my uncle, you know, I think you have a right— look. I think… I think there’s something you should know.”

***

It was no good. The cold light of morning was seeping through the curtains and Merlin still hadn’t had a wink of sleep. In frustration, he yawned and crawled out of bed, dressing in his palace uniform. He checked his watch. Two hours to go before breakfast.

He gave in to temptation and slipped his special mobile phone from the drawer where he kept it, wondering for a moment if it was too early.

“Gaius?” he whispered, finger hovering ready to stop the call if Gaius complained about the hour.

“Merlin?” Gaius’s voice crackled at the end of the phone. “Why are you calling me from there, it’s not safe.”

“I know, uncle, but I just—” He slumped down on top of his bed and gazed at the ceiling for inspiration. “I just needed to talk to someone. I’m running out of ideas. I must have tried every cupboard in Camelot, but I can’t find it anywhere.”

“You haven’t been compromised?” said Gaius.

“N...No.” Merlin bit his lip, realising that Gaius wouldn’t be happy about the conversation that he had with Arthur the previous day. Probably best not to mention that.

“You don’t sound very sure. My boy. You are in danger. You should abandon the quest.”

“But I’m so close.” he whispered. “It’s here, somewhere! I can feel it, sometimes, like some sort of a malevolent ghost!”  

“Are you any closer to even identifying the object yet?”

“I think it might be a child’s toy, of some sort,” Merlin raked his hands through his hair. “But it’s not in Arthur’s chambers, nor Morgana’s. I can’t for the life of me work out where it could be.”

“Then come home, dear boy.” Gaius’s voice was still disapproving. “After all, you were only meant to be there for a couple of hours - none of this was in the original plan. You have done more than enough.”

“But Arthur… Arthur is still in danger. I have to stay. I have to find it, and lord knows he needs looking after. Besides which—”

Merlin swallowed, rubbing at his soulmark, which was hidden beneath his glove, but he knew, after two nights in a row, he knew what it would look like. It had started to glow, a vague but ecstatic pink, which could mean only one thing.

He had gone and fallen in love with Arthur.

And if he left now, could he be sure that he would ever see Arthur again? He couldn’t bear the thought. It was selfish, he knew, but he didn’t want to leave, not now, not unless it was by Arthur’s insistence.

He wondered if Arthur had this effect on everyone who worked for him. Did George feel like this? Did he find his heart leaping and his breath quickening every time he went to help Arthur dress and was greeted with a soft smile and a quip?

George. George was the key to all this somehow. George, who had stolen Arthur’s toy. Was that because he loved Arthur? George who had suffered nightmares. Nightmares that Merlin had later shared, and then, Gwen.

In that room with the white walls. And the locked cupboard…

“God, I’ve been such an idiot!” he said out loud.

“Merlin?”

“Got to go, Gaius!” With a firm jab of his finger, he ended the call.

***

Morgana Pendragon was accustomed to being obeyed. But even she had a vulnerable side. Not one that she revealed to many, of course. A select number of people were in her inner circle; by select, she meant two people. Gwen, and Leon.

Two people whom she would defend to the death.

All right, make that three. Because then there was Arthur. Her irritating, combative little brother who had a heart of gold and did everything in his power to hide it.

The two Pendragon siblings looked so different, and yet, they were very alike.

And Arthur… Arthur was in grave danger.

She let out a sigh of relief when the discreet knock at the door meant that he had arrived for their little impromptu meeting.

Thankfully he had left his treacherous valet behind, as she had asked.

“Ah, Arthur.” Uther, who was sitting at the head of the table, indicated that the hovering under-footman should pull out a chair for Arthur, and then he dismissed all the staff in the room with an imperious wave of his hand, so that the few who remained were those that she trusted.

“What’s going on?” Arthur frowned at them all. “Why have you dismissed all the staff from the room? Except _him_ , of course.” His mouth pushed out in a sour pout as he sent a venomous glare across the table to Mordred. “Come to mention it, why is _he_ here? I thought I sacked him.”

“I have reinstated Mordred,” said Morgana, her temper beginning to rise as it usually did when Arthur defied her, which was most of the time. “Which is just as well, because he has brought me some grave news.”

“Oh?” Arthur lifted his eyebrows and sank down onto an uncomfortable-looking chair (Uther did not keep any other sort in his formal meeting room). “Pray elaborate.”

“Your valet is not who he says he is,” said Mordred.

Morgana smiled. Arthur would see. He would see that he needed Morgana, that he wasn’t safe without her judgment over the people that he let close to him.

“I’ve dug a little deeper.” Mordred carried on, opening an envelope and pulling out some papers. “It turns out that he never was Bayard’s valet after all. The valet that Bayard employed was called Lancelot Del Lago – Merlin is an imposter. 

“What?” Arthur looked from Mordred to Morgana and back again. “What do you mean?”

“Your Merlin is a magic user,” said Morgana, delivering the final blow to Merlin’s tenure as Arthur’s valet. “I knew there was something odd about him as soon as I met him. And he’s up to something.”

“We have heard reports that Cenred’s been trying to infiltrate your inner circle,” Mordred carried on. “To get close enough to you to form a soulbond against your will.”

“What are you insinuating?” growled Arthur. “Spit it out.”

“We think that Merlin might be trying to bond with you against your will—” started Morgana.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Arthur scoffed. “Merlin doesn’t know his arse from his elbow half the time! And yet I’d rather have him as my valet than that prim, uptight bloke you had doing it before.”

“Oh?” Mordred’s expression turned sly. “So he hasn’t tried to get close to you, then? I must say that he has insinuated himself into your trust very quic—”

“No!” Arthur said, far too quickly, and when his face pinked, Morgana knew Mordred had hit a nerve. “No, he hasn’t done anything like that.”

“Arthur, did you know that he has magic?” Uther placed his palms flat upon the table and leaned forward, as if straining to hear the answer. “If someone bonded you against your will, it could be a real danger to your life. Especially if they are a magic user.”

“Huh? I can’t believe that you’re saying this!” cried Arthur. “Why, only last week, you seemed very keen for me to bond to Vivian, completely without my consent!”

“That was completely different,” said Morgana, with a smirk. “Vivian would have been a great match for you—”

“Says who?”

“—whereas this lying warlock…”

“I will not stand aside and let you organise my life for me without as much as a by your leave!” yelled Arthur, banging his fists upon the table. “If you’ve quite finished? I trust Merlin completely! Which is more than I can say for anybody in this room!”

“How dare you!” she shrieked, also rising to her feet.

“Sit down, all of you.” Uther said, calmly. “We will discover more when we interrogate the boy. See to it, would you, Mordred? Discreetly, of course.”

“Of course, sir.” Mordred said, with an obsequious bow.

Sitting down, Morgana leveled narrowed eyes at her brother.

***

Merlin strode down the corridor purposefully, trying not to break into a run. Of course! Why hadn’t he tried this earlier? The key to it all lay in Gwen’s room. Arthur’s nightmares had stopped when George stole the toy; George had nightmares that made him leave Arthur’s service. And then, when Merlin had slept in that same room, he started having nightmares of his own. Just the memory of them made him shiver. And then, when Gwen took the room, her nightmares started. There must be something – something about that room, or something in that room – a magical item, perhaps. He’d felt it, when he looked round, after all. It had to be in that unlocked cupboard, it had to be!

As he turned the corner, he was relieved to see Gwen waiting outside for him as she had promised. After that one night, Gwen had been sleeping in Sefa’s empty room, now that Sefa and Daegal were officially an item. So no one now occupied the white room – and Gwen had the key.

“So – you think there’s a magic item in there.” She frowned. “I don’t understand. Do you mean like a top hat, or a rabbit or something?”

Fishing around in her pocket, she retrieved a large key. It gleamed green by the light that glowed from a nearby fire escape.

“No, those are conjurer’s props.” He shook his head, wondering how to explain. “This is something different. Real magic.”

He didn’t want to out himself as a magic user, not yet. She was a friend, yes, but who knew how she would react? It wasn’t a generally accepted phenomenon, in this day and age. Maybe she was one of those people who didn’t believe in magic at all. What would he do then? He supposed that a minor spell would convince her, but at the same time, he didn’t want to scare her.

“What do you mean, real magic?” Her frown deepened.

On the other hand, he didn’t think they had a lot of time. Whoever was moving in on Arthur might strike at any moment.

“Something bad,” he said. “Think of it as a curse, or witchcraft, if you will. There is such a thing as magic – and some people use it to do bad things, while others… others use it to try to help people.”

“Others like whom?” It was dim in this corridor. Her eyes looked huge and black.

“Um.” He shrugged, and flashed her a hopeful smile. “Me?”

“You.” She didn’t sound convinced

But her hand hovered by the door, and the key was in it.

“Yes.” He sighed, willing her to unlock the damned door. “It’s one of the reasons why I am so bad at ironing. My magic gets all excited…”

“And exactly what are all these good things are you doing with your _magic_?” With a half-smile, she inserted the key in the lock, and turned it. There was an audible thunk.

There. That was the first obstacle removed.

“Well,” he said, with a relieved grin. “Right now I’m trying to find out where the toy is… and then I’ll try to find out who managed to plant it on that little girl, and why.”

He made as if to open the door. But Gwen caught his arm before he could turn the handle. Her eyes were very worried and very, very dark.

“Wait! What toy? What little girl?” she said. “Forgive me, Merlin, but you’re not drawing a very convincing picture here.”

“There isn’t time to explain everything,” said Merlin, extracting his arm from her grip as gently as he could. “But there’s something bad, in that room, and we need to find it.” 

“So, you’re like some sort of magical investigator, then?” She still looked sceptical, but at least she hadn’t dismissed him before they’d managed to get into the room.

“Pretty much.” He saw no point in lying about it, not now. “And you’re helping me with my investigations.”

“So, Morgana was right, then. You’re not what you seem.”

“Hmm?” said Merlin, alarmed. “Morgana was right about what?”

He knew that Morgana had always been suspicious of him. She had taken an instinctual dislike to him. He had always thought that her resentment stemmed from the fact that Arthur had hired him without consulting her. But perhaps there was more to it than that. Perhaps she had found out why he was actually there? Suddenly concerned that his secrets might be out, he paused, one hand on the doorknob. But he didn't have time to think this through right now. It would have to wait. 

Just then, Merlin’s phone beeped. Fumbling, with trembling hands, he pulled it from his pocket. He took a quick glance at the screen. “Shit.”

It was Arthur.

_The eagle has landed._

Damn. He had even less time than he thought. Abruptly, heart hammering, Merlin thrust his phone back into his pocket.

“Can we talk about this later?” he said. “It’s sort of urgent.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

There was no time to lose. Hurriedly, he waved a hand at the now unlocked door. It opened with a click. Ignoring her shocked gasp, he strode through it. A musty, unlived-in smell wafted out. The light switch clicked, but nothing happened, so he conjured a werelight. It hovered protectively over his head, casting a blue glow over the room.

“Now you’re just showing off,” she said, standing in the doorway, gazing open-mouthed at the werelight. "Wait, that's like the light that we all saw after that dinner! The one where Vivian tried to... but you told everyone that Arthur—"

“Yes.” Shrugging, he looked back at her. "That was me. Um. Oops?" 

“We are definitely going to have a long conversation about lying to our friends,” she grumbled. But she stepped over the threshold anyway. “Why did you need me here if you could open the room with a spell like that?”

The room still made Merlin’s skin feel clammy. His soulmark prickled. He walked over to the locked cupboard. It was only a few strides. But it seemed to take forever. His feet felt as if they were moving through glue, and the effort made his pulse rate quicken. 

“It’s a permission thing,” he said, struggling to move his legs. “My magic doesn’t like going against someone’s will. I’d rather not upset the balance too much. There is always a price, if you do.” 

His skin pebbled into goosebumps. The prickling soulmark felt colder and colder with each step. Those were his typical physiological reactions to dark magic. And they seemed to get larger the closer he got to the cupboard. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed that before. By the time he could reach out and touch the cupboard, his fingers were shaking and his soulmark felt like ice.

Abruptly, he pulled off his glove. His soulmark was glowing, as it did when he was near strong magic. He ignored Gwen’s surprised gasp, and touched the door with his normally gloved hand. Nothing happened, so he grabbed the handle, and tugged it. It burned cold, but did not budge. He hissed, pulling back his hand.

What could be in there, that had such power over even him? He dreaded to think. His mind’s eye pictured an array of dread torture implements. Or hideous ingredients for some vile potion, perhaps. Whatever it was, the magnetic waves of malevolence it gave off seemed to be magnifying with every second. Perhaps proximity to Merlin, with all those deep untapped wells of talent that Gaius kept going on about, was making it stronger.

He needed to disable the thing, and fast..

“What is it?” she said, apprehension making her voice tremble.

“Wards.” He said, turning back to her, with an apologetic shrug, trying not to let his own anxiety show. “Magical wards. Inside. Whatever is in there, doesn’t want me to open it. I don’t suppose you found a key, do you?”

She shook her head.

“Okay. Stand back then,” he warned. “This could get messy. I’m going to break in.” Holding out his hand, he muttered the spell. _“Aliese.”_

The cupboard rattled, loudly, but still remained stubbornly closed.

“Right. It’s like that, is it?” He licked his lips, and closed his eyes, remembering the spell, feeling it with his tongue.

“Merlin, what are you—”

“Stay right back, Gwen!” he cried. “I’m going to try something stronger. Cover your eyes, and duck.” His eyes popped open, and he held his hand outstretched, imbuing his words with all the power he could muster.

“ _Tospringe!_ ” he cried. 

There was a loud bang. From somewhere behind him, Gwen shrieked. He hoped she had ducked. Momentarily blinded by his magic and by dust, Merlin squinted at the remains of the cupboard door.

“Well I never.” It was Gwen who strode over for a closer look. “That wasn’t what I was expecting at all!”

As Merlin joined her, he couldn’t help agreeing. They gazed together at the contents of the cupboard for a long minute, and then exchanged a puzzled look, before bursting out laughing.

***

While they waited for Mordred to return with Merlin, Arthur sat on his hands. After seeing Arthur fiddling on his phone, Morgana had grabbed it off him, so that he could not text Merlin anything else. But hopefully his original message had got through.

There was a discreet knock at the door.

“Enter!” said the King.

The door opened slowly. Arthur’s heart was in his mouth. But when Merlin came in, bowing low, it was Gwen who stood by his side, not Mordred.

Arthur let out a relieved breath. But the relief was short lived.

“I have brought the imposter,” said Gwen, shoving Merlin forward.

He stumbled, and looked up, startled.

“Oh, well done, Gwen,” purred Morgana.

Just then, the door opened again and Mordred burst in, looking out of breath and flustered.

“Sir, I couldn’t find him… oh! Here he is.” Mordred stepped forward, eyes darting from side to side. “What? How?”

“What’s going on?” Arthur growled. “Guinevere?”

Gwen swallowed and looked at Morgana as if asking for permission to speak. Morgana nodded.

“Well, I trusted Merlin at first, because all his checks came out all right. But then I thought about it. And when I thought about it I knew.” She swallowed.

“Go on, Gwen,” said Morgana.

“I mean, it didn’t work, did it? Because – because, well, as it happens I met Bayard’s valet, while he was here I mean, and, well, he’s a bit gorgeous.” Gwen bit her lip. “His name’s Lancelot, and I couldn’t help noticing… Well. I noticed that Merlin’s not him. So his story didn’t add up. But I couldn’t work out why his security clearance was all right. So Morgana told me to go along with him and find out what I could, so I did, and… well, he’s a magic user, Arthur! Merlin is, I mean.”

“Is this true?” said Uther, frowning.

“You think I didn’t know that?” Arthur rolled his eyes.

“But it’s not just that! He’s not who he says he is – he’s never done valeting before in his life – and, well, you hired him, and Morgana was worried. He kept snooping around my room, Morgana found him once, and we were really suspicious because we thought he might be trying to soulbond you, but we wanted to keep an eye on things and… I’m really sorry, Merlin…” she trailed off, darting an apologetic look at Merlin. “I don’t think you’re a bad person, but Morgana was worried…”

“Of course I was worried!” said Morgana. “I still am! Because I have heard things. I have _Seen_ things.”

“Your premonitions again?” Arthur swallowed. Morgana’s Sight had been a closely guarded secret of the royal family for years. “What did you See?”

“Someone is trying to do something to you, Arthur.” She stepped towards Merlin, who was still sitting on the floor, looking all confused. “My vision has you lying on the ground, still, so still! Blood everywhere, your glove is off, your soumark is glowing… and someone is standing over you, with a gun… whether it’s an accidental bonding, or an assassination attempt or both I don’t know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” cried Arthur. “Surely I had a right to know…”

“I wanted to know what he would do.” Morgana shrugged. “You know my visions are tricky, they only show me part of the picture. I needed to know more. And now I know. I haven’t Seen their face. But it’s clear to me that the most likely person is the one who has been skulking around.” 

She pointed a shaky finger at Merlin. “It’s you. You’re the one!”

“You’re an assassin?” cried King Uther as he stood up and began to advance across the room, square-jawed and pugnacious. “You will hang for this.”

“No.” Scrambling back on his elbows, Merlin shook his head. “No, no!, You’ve got it all wrong. It’s not me. I would never hurt Arthur, I swear. I’ve been protecting him.”

“What do you mean?” said Gwen.

Uther was only two strides away from Merlin, bending down with gloved hands outstretched. Arthur supposed he had better intervene.

“Stop, Father!” he yelled. “Let me explain.”

Uther paused.

“Go on,” he growled.

Merlin stood up, cautiously, eyes darting around the room. He smoothed the fabric on his trousers.

Arthur cleared his throat. “It’s true. Merlin is a member of MI7. The magical secret service. Yes, Father, don’t look surprised, of course I know about MI7.”

“MI7? _Him?_ Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffed Morgana, who could never bear to be outsmarted, especially by Arthur. “How old is he? Ten?”

“I’m nineteen!” Merlin protested, colour flushing his cheeks.

Which did kind of prove Morgana’s point. Arthur knew that Merlin was only on probation, and to be honest he made a terrible under-cover agent. But nevertheless he couldn’t help scowling at at Morgana as a point of principle before continuing.

“ _As I was saying,_ before I was rudely interrupted,” he said through gritted teeth. “I was suspicious of Merlin, of course. And at first I thought the same as you, that he had been trying to infiltrate my inner circle to coerce me into a soulbond. But he has told me everything. It turns out that he’s been seeking a magical artefact, which was planted on me some time ago…”

“…Gwen and I found the artefact, just now – and I have neutralised it,” added Merlin.

Arthur filed that information away for later.

“That’s not everything, though…” Arthur sighed and nodded at Merlin, indicating that he should come clean. “There’s also…”

“…there’s also a plot,” said Merlin, grimly. “As Morgana has Seen, someone is after Arthur, and they’ve infiltrated the palace. But we – myself and Gaius, that’s the head of MI7 he’s my uncle, sir – um – we don’t know who it is. They took out our best agent, which is why I’m here…

“Who? Who would do that?” whispered Gwen.

“Essetir,” said Merlin, grimly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffed Morgana. “Morgause is my half-sister. She would never--” 

“I don’t know why,” Merlin interrupted. “But I think they have infiltrated the palace, and so does Arthur. In fact, while I was looking for the toy, Arthur texted me to let me know that he thought he had worked it out...”

“But then, if it’s not you, who is it?” said Morgana, her hand fluttering to her mouth.

Just then, Arthur felt something odd. He was flung down upon a chair. Something cold pressed against his neck. He tried to flinch away. But he was pinned, as if invisible bonds held him. His throat felt constricted. When he tried to speak, it tightened. Only a strangled moan came out.

“I think you’ll find,” said a familiar voice. “That it’s me.”

Mordred!

All the faces in the room swivelled towards Arthur, shocked eyes round and black fixed upon the figure that stepped out from behind him.

 

“You see,” Mordred walked away from Arthur, but something still remained cold upon Arthur’s skin all the while. He could not move. Mordred waved a hand. Whatever was around Arthur’s neck tightened further in response.

Arthur gasped. He struggled, but try as he might, he was stuck.

“You see,” Mordred went on. “While you were all running around stressing about petty soulmarks and soulbonds and so forth, my aunt, Lady Morgause, and dear Uncle Cenred have been busy unravelling Albion’s constitutional crisis.”

“What constitutional crisis?” said the king, taking a step towards Mordred.

“Stay where you are!” yelled Mordred.

Mordred twisted his hand from across the room. The movement yanked Arthur nearly out of his chair. Arthur pressed his lips together to stop himself from crying out. So Mordred had magic, too.

Uther subsided, jaw clenching.

“You see,” Mordred continued, prowling around the silent king. “Camelot has ruled Albion for too long. But we have been doing our research. It turns out that if we restore male primogeniture, and remove this parasitic oaf of a prince from the picture, Uncle Cenred will be next in line for the throne of the country. Essetir will rule Albion at last. Imagine that! With me, the next in line after that!”

“Arthur!” Merlin yelled, springing forward as if to wrench Mordred away.

Mordred twisted his hand again. Arthur grunted, struggling to take in a breath. His arms fought in vain against whatever held him.

“Sit down, Emrys.” Mordred grinned. Oh yes, I know who you are. The decoy kept you off my scent for ages, though, didn’t it?”

“The decoy?” said Morgana.

“Oh, yes. I forgot, you didn’t know about that, Auntie!” Mordred stalked around the room. “That was a work of genius! Sending a cursed My Little Pony into the palace. I knew Arthur, the sentimental fool, would keep it.”

Arthur struggled, but his bonds started to dig into his skin. Frustrated, he subsided. He could only hope that Mordred, so carried away with his own cleverness, would be foiled by someone else raising the alarm.

“It’s cursed with visions, you see,” Mordred carried on. “Visions of Slenderman. An internet meme. It amused me to think how Arthur would be cowed and terrified, unable to sleep, by a meme!”

“The dreams…” Merlin’s mouth twisted venomously. “Why, you vicious little…”

“Do watch your manners, Merlin.” purred Mordred. “We wouldn’t want your prince to suffer any more than he needs to, would we?”

He tweaked Arthur’s bonds, making Arthur hiss out in agony. Merlin subsided, pain clouding his eyes.

“It would have worked, too,” Mordred went on. “If only that pesky Brony, George hadn’t stolen it for his personal collection…” 

“That’s what we found,” said Gwen, eyes round with realisation. “The cursed toy! George had put it in his cupboard, with all his other My Little Pony toys. Merlin was right! And my bad dreams! It was Mordred all along!”

Meanwhile, lack of oxygen was making little black spots dance at the edge of Arthur’s vision. He was going to black out, soon, if he didn’t get any air. The option sounded quite attractive.

“Mordred?” whispered Morgana. “Mordred, what are you talking about? What are you doing? Stop it!”

“I’ll let you live, Auntie,” said Mordred. “But I’m afraid your brother has to die. For Essetir.”

Suddenly Arthur realised what the cold feeling against his neck was.

It was a gun.

“No!” Merlin thrust an ungloved hand into the air. His eyes glowed bright gold. His soulmark glowed. “It ends here, Mordred!”

There was a flash. The invisible bonds that held Arthur fell away.  Suddenly he was free, save for the cold steel that still nudged at his carotid artery. Gasping in great gulps of air, he put his hand to his throat, and tried to grab the gun, but it held firm.

Merlin’s eyes flashed golden again. The light from his soulmark intensified, its rainbow colours shimmering, making Arthur blink. A warmth engulfed him then, as if he was being embraced by light, or magic, or love, or perhaps all three. Abruptly, the cold patch on his neck vanished.

“Emrys! What have you done?” yelled Mordred.

He tugged something from his belt, and swung his arm round, pointing it at Arthur. Another gun, Arthur realised.

“Go ahead.” Merlin crossed his arms. “Arthur’s shield now covers his body.”

“A shield?” Mordred gaped at Arthur. “How did you do that?”

“I may only be nineteen, but I’m quite powerful, my uncle says.” Merlin shrugged. “You’ll never kill him now. He is protected.”

“But you’re not.” said Mordred, with a cold smile.

Abruptly, he swivelled round on his feet and pointed the gun at Merlin. He crooked his finger on the trigger. There was a quiet click.

“No!” yelled Arthur.

Two things happened at once. A shot rang out, obscene and loud. At the same time, Merlin yelled something in a language that he didn’t understand.

Someone screamed. There was a loud thud as Mordred fell down, senseless. The doors were flung open, and guards swarmed into the room. Mordred was buried under a mob of flailing fists. But as the smoke cleared, Arthur had eyes only for Merlin. 

Merlin, who lay sprawled upon the floor in a pool of blood. His white valet’s shirt had an ugly dark stain upon it. And the stain was growing. His hand lay open, still outstretched, his soulmark bared for all to see, still glowing, but as Arthur watch the light faded and winked out. Merlin’s eyes fluttered closed.

“Merlin!” Arthur gasped, falling to his knees at his friend’s side. “Merlin, no!”

“Looks like Mordred got me.” Merlin’s eyes flicked open. His breathing was shallow. 

“You’re bleeding,” Arthur said, numbly. He covered the wound with frantic hands. “Get an ambulance, someone!” he yelled. 

“But you’re all right.” A faint smile tugged at Merlin’s lips. “And that’s what matters.” He chuckled, and it turned into a cough.

“You’ll be fine,” said Arthur, searching for a pulse upon Merlin’s bare wrist. “Stay with me. I command it. You’re not permitted to die.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” whispered Merlin. “I can’t… I don’t think…” his eyes slid closed. “I’m losing too much blood.”

“Where’s that ambulance?” yelled Arthur into the chaos.

Morgana and Gwen were standing over him. Gwen’s hand was to her mouth, and her eyes glistened.

“I don’t think there’s much we can do,” said Morgana. “I’m so so sorry, Arthur.

Arthur looked down at where Merlin’s beautiful soulmark lay upon his upturned palm. It resembled a butterfly, tracing delicately laced veins upon the pale skin of Merlin’s hand. His instincts urged him to touch it, to kiss all the pain away.

Merlin had exposed his mark, put himself in the way of a bullet, all for Arthur. Suddenly more than just the mark was clear to him. With a smile, he looked up at his sister and his friend.

“It’s all right,” he said, tugging off his glove. It was so obvious, when he thought about it. He couldn’t allow Merlin to die, not knowing what he knew, not feeling how he felt.

Something clicked into place in his head, like a giant cog turning, meeting its equal, and joining with it in a seamless match that made his heart race and his pulse thrum. This was it! This would be the day! And the rightness of it screamed at him.

“It’s all right,” he said again. “I know what to do.”

“What are you… Arthur, no!” yelled Morgana.

“Merlin,” said Arthur softly.

“Arthur.” Merlin’s eyes flew open, and he smiled.

“Are you ready, Merlin?” said Arthur. “I think the time is right.”

“I think so too,” whispered Merlin.

Abruptly, Arthur pressed his bare soulmark to Merlin’s upturned palm. A surge of joy rushed through him. The world flashed golden, and Arthur tumbled to the floor.

***

When Merlin blinked awake, he thought he must have fallen asleep in heaven, upon a cloud, so soft was the mattress, and so blissfully warm. He turned towards the source of the warmth, and blinked again.

There, beside him upon the bed, naked and gloriously golden, lay the Prince of Camelot himself. Little wuffles of air puffed from his nose as he slept. Glancing down, Merlin saw that both his and Arthur’s hands were gloveless, and tightly entwined. So it wasn’t a dream, then. Greedily, he breathed in Arthur’s scent, to make sure.

With his free hand, he cautiously felt for the wound that he knew should be in his chest. But all he found was a scar – it itched slightly, but that was all. He grinned. If he lay back and listened, just listened, he could hear the gentle thud-thud of Arthur’s heart as it beat in a slow rhythm that matched his own.

He lay down again. People were probably wondering if they were waking up yet, if they had recovered, but the room was empty. And he was in no hurry.

***

The dust gradually settled on Camelot Palace and life returned to a new normal - albeit one in which the tabloids were benefitting greatly from the prince’s scandalous new soulmate. A magic user, no less! And a commoner, to boot! But deep in the apartments of the royal family, the primary mood was one of surprised contentment.

Thus it was that, a few weeks after the eventful overturning of Cenred’s plot, King Uther Pendragon was sitting in his private apartments with his faithful equerry, Geoffrey. They were accompanied by a pair of antique decanters on a silver tray, three empty tumblers, and an open bottle of Baileys Irish Creme. This latter ridiculous concoction being Geoffrey’s tipple of choice.

“Professor Curry is here to see you sir.” The servant bowed to the correct angle.

“Ah, yes. Send him in, would you?” said the king.

Geoffrey frowned as he consulted his watch.

Uther was about to respond when the door opened and Gaius himself walked in.

“You’re late, Gaius,” said Uther.

“I’m so sorry, Your Majesty,” Gaius wheezed. “I’m not as fast as I once was.”

“Yes, yes. Well, we’re none of us young any more. Do sit down.” Uther wafted a hand at a Gaius’s customary armchair. “The usual?”

He dismissed the waiting staff so that only the three of them remained.

“Please.” Gaius sank into the chair with a grateful hiss. “I swear this apartment gets further away from the staff entrance every day.”

“Geoffrey, would you do the honours?” said Uther.

“Of course, sir.” Geoffrey pulled himself up to his feet and poured two fingers of well-aged Talisker from the crystal decanter into a glass, which he handed to Gaius upon a tray.

“Thank you, Geoffrey.” Gaius took a sip, his face softening in approval. “Good God, that’s a splendid whisky, sir.”

“Indeed it is.” Rolling his own glass between his fingers, Uther regarded the two other men gravely. “Thank you for coming for the debrief.”

“Well, it didn’t go quite according to plan, sir,” said Gaius, with a wolfish grin. “But all in all, I think it’s a rather happy outcome, don’t you?”

“Indeed,” said Geoffrey. “A happy accident, you could say. It’s good to see the house of Pendragon and the house of Balinor united, once more, albeit in a rather unconventional way.”

“Mmm.” Uther took a small sip of his thirty-year-old Macallan, savouring its flavour upon his tongue.  “Your nephew did well, Gaius. Tell me, how is your other agent?”

“K10 is recovering.” Gaius raised an eyebrow. “But I’m afraid that he will be unable to act in the same capacity again.”

“Well, Arthur will be looking for a new security guard,” said Uther. “After Mordred’s sad demise.”

The three men exchanged a look.

“Don’t you think it’s about time that Arthur started making his own staffing decisions, sir?” said Gaius, softly.

“What, in the same way that he selected his own soulmate?” Uther chuckled, which set the other two off.

“Very funny, sir!” choked Gaius.

Because of course Arthur hadn’t chosen his own soulmate. As if Uther would ever allow that to happen.

“Threatening him with Vivian was a stroke of genius, sir,” said Geoffrey, licking Baileys off his own beard. Dear old Geoffrey. Such childish taste in alcohol. “And it certainly forced Emrys’s hand.”

“Indeed.” Gaius stared at the ceiling. “I was concerned, I have to say, when Gwaine dropped out. I really didn’t think Merlin was ready for an undercover assignment yet. But it seems I was spectacularly wrong – and we were able to kill two birds with one stone, as it were.”

“Yes.” Uther drained his glass, and took a moment to enjoy the sensation of the burn trickling down his throat. “I was worried that your replacement agent would be unable to find the assassin in time, but as you say, the soulbond was an excellent outcome.”

“Arthur is still far too trusting. I am not sure that he is quite ready to take on the full role of the prince,” said Gaius.

“I’m not sure,” said Geoffrey. “His bondmate seems rather good at sneaking, if you ask me. Even if Arthur lacks the dark, Machiavellian art of running the palace, it’s good that he has his mate to rely on. Because, let’s face it, he’ll never be as good at it as Morgana.”

“Indeed,” said Geoffrey. “Camelot is blessed to have such a thoroughly underhand and above all vigilant Crown Princess. I have no doubt she is watching us right now.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Uther, raising his glass. “That’s my girl. Chin, chin!” He grinned and waved towards the ceiling.

“Chin, chin,” echoed the others.

***

“Well, really.” On the other side of the palace, Morgana frowned at her scrying glass. “Those three old mother hens really are the limit.”

“Clucking away, are they?” said Gwen, sympathetically. She peered at the glass. “I can’t see a thing.”

“Consider yourself lucky.” Morgana peered back at the glass. “You’re not missing much; just my father and his two beardy old cronies, cackling over their whisky as if they are the three witches in Macbeth.”

“Oh, they’re not that bad! You love them really.” Gwen was altogether too trusting.

“You are kidding, right? You do know that they planned the whole thing?”

“What – the unicorn toy and everything?”

“Well, not that bit.” Morgana smirked. “No, I think that put the kibosh on some of their evil ideas. In fact, I get the feeling that quite a lot of things didn’t go quite according to plan, and Merlin in particular is difficult for them to read. But certainly they seem very self satisfied to have got rid of Mordred.”

She pouted. That still rankled. Morgana had _trusted_ Mordred – not to mention that slimy weasel, Cenred. Well, she wouldn’t make that mistake again.

“Well, I for one am happy for Merlin and Arthur.” Gwen took a sip of her tea. “Oh, this is just ready to drink, Morgana. You should have your tea now.”

“Thanks Gwen. But really, those crusty old buggers are the very limit. And Arthur thinks _I’m_ manipulative!”

As she raised her teacup, Morgana narrowed her eyes, and sent a vicious dart of magic through the glass. In the glass, she was satisfied to see Geoffrey shoot to his feet, clutching his bum.

“Gotcha! serves you right, you conniving old rogue.”

But Geoffrey just raised a glass and grinned vaguely at the ceiling, raising his glass as if he knew she was watching.

“Bloody evil old gits, the three of them,” muttered Morgana, burying her nose in her teacup.

***

Meanwhile, in yet another wing of the palace, fair Prince Arthur lay entwined with his soulmate upon the covers of their bed. Through the open window, the moon shone down upon them, bathing them in pale light. The bliss that surrounded them was only marred by the memory of the utter fear and devastation he had felt when he saw Merlin lying prone upon the floor, blood seeping from an ugly wound. For one horrible moment, he had thought that he might be losing Merlin altogether.

“It’s all right, Arthur,” murmured Merlin, reading his pensive mood as if he could feel what Arthur felt. Which, in a way, he probably could. “I’m fine, remember.”

“Yeah, but you did take a bullet for me, you complete idiot.” Arthur turned his head upon the pillow, falling back with a sigh. The memory still gave him nightmares.

“It’s my job,” said Merlin, languidly. “But I’d have done it anyway. For you, Arthur.”

“I don’t remember Jeeves getting  shot on Bertie Wooster’s behalf,” said Arthur.

“You’ve been reading too much Wodehouse again.” Merlin’ eyes fluttered closed. He yawned, and pulled the covers across the lean lines of his naked body. “I don’t remember the books where Bertie shagged Jeeves into the mattress, either.”

“You’ve been reading the wrong ones,” said Arthur. “The X-rated ones are only only available to a very select few.” He turned to his beloved, placing his ungloved soulmark upon Merlin’s forehead, relishing the deep warmth of Merlin’s pulse against his naked skin. “Anyway, you’re not going to be my valet, not now that George has agreed to come back.”

“He seemed very happy to have his My Little Pony collection back.” Merlin chuckled. “I got the surprise of my life when I opened that cupboard and a whole load of little ponies fell out!”

“Yeah,” Arthur grinned at the ceiling, but left his hand where it was, upon Merlin’s temple. “Gwen says he goes to conventions, dresses up as them and everything. It just goes to show, you think you know someone…”

“Mmm.” Merlin turned his head to caress Arthur’s soulmark with his lips, making Arthur’s heart soar and his soul want to sing.

“Are you sure that the cursed toy, what was its name?” Arthur drummed his fingers upon the skin of Merlin’s chest.

“Princess Celestia.” Merlin’s reply made his ribs rumble against Arthur’s splayed hand.

“Princess Celestia,” Arthur nodded. “That’s it. Are you sure that she’s… you know… okay now?”

“Yes.” Merlin grinned. “I gave her a bit of extra protection, to make sure.”

“I dread to think what that means.”

“Nothing!” said Merlin, too quickly. “Anyway. It’ll be weird having George back, I suppose.”

“Yes.” Arthur smirked. “All that competence will be a shock to the system.”

“Oi!” Merlin’s eyes were dark, indignant, but his mouth turned up at the edges. “I’d have been far more competent if there hadn’t been a gorgeous prat distracting me with his perfect arse and annoyingly golden hair all the time. I mean, you have no idea how hard it is trying to do things with your right hand when your soulmark is doing the magical equivalent of standing to attention and singing _La Marseillaise!_ I mean, it’s hard enough ironing and keeping your magic under control _at the same time_ without…”

“Merlin,” growled Arthur.

“Mmm?”

“Shut up.”

“When have I ever done what you tell me to?”

So Arthur leaned forward and pressed his lips to Merlin’s mouth. 

To ensure compliance, of course.

Far away across the city, as George brushed his My Little Pony Princess Celestia Action Figure’s hair until it shone, he was most surprised when she winked at him.

But then again, he’d always known that she was special.

*********THE END*********

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Merlin and Arthur belong to us all. They're not my characters, and I'm not getting paid for making them do things.


End file.
